


Zachem Ya

by Twigo



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Angst, Dark, Drama, Horror, Insanity, M/M, Stockholm Syndrome, Suspense, noir
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-27
Updated: 2020-11-20
Packaged: 2021-03-04 07:00:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 54
Words: 385,670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24939439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Twigo/pseuds/Twigo
Summary: AU. 1960s. The story of Ludwig's life is that Gilbert gets into trouble, and Ludwig pays the price. This time, Gilbert just went too far. Ludwig finds himself in the clutches of a Red soldier who seems to own Siberia entire. Apparently he owns Ludwig now, too. But Gilbert isn't giving up that easily. He promised his brother that they would always be together. RusGer, PruLiet
Relationships: Germany/Russia (Hetalia), Lithuania/Poland (Hetalia), Lithuania/Prussia (Hetalia)
Comments: 35
Kudos: 66





	1. Prologue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N : !NOTE! (There is nothing new, I just broke down the chapters into normal length so they weren't monstrosities! Sorry if you got email spammed.)
> 
> Warnings! : AU. Human characters. Set in 1960s Eastern Bloc. Violence, language, insanity, drug use, non-con, gloomy themes, Stockholm Syndrome, character death, psychological manipulation/torture, etc. Dark, bro. You've been warned.
> 
> Pairings : RusGer, PruLiet, some mentioned AusHun. Featuring Belarus, Ukraine, Estonia, Latvia, and America. As always, Hungary goes by her proper Hungarian name (Erzsébet, not Elizabeta).
> 
> ...did I mention everyone in this is fuckin' crazy? Ok.
> 
> Also, this is a RusGer, but Toris is the standout star, hands down.

**ZACHEM YA**

* * *

**Prologue**

Cкажи, зачем я жду звонка?

Зачем немые облака плывут ко мне издалека и тают?

Зачем любовь коснулась нас?

Зачем я плачу в первый раз?

Зачем хочу тебя сейчас?

не знаю...

The construction began in 1961.

It was early on a Sunday morning when the border between East and West Germany was officially closed. All friendly and familiar visits came to a grinding halt; only officials and diplomats could squeeze their way through the blockade, and the police were unmoving in their orders.

The first foundation blocks were laid on August 17th. Military personnel surrounded the perimeters with high-powered rifles and barking dogs that they held on leashes, and kept the Easterners at bay. The Westerners stood silently on the other side, watching their counterparts being slowly and deliberately shielded from view.

They came every day.

It wasn't so bad at first. Just a long, impenetrable stretch of the worst-looking barbed wire they had ever seen. The towers were already going up, and the riflemen had orders to shoot dead anyone who crossed into the moderately marked no-man's land. There were no vociferous protests; the Soviet-backed guards were not the ones that were to be crossed or harassed. The Westerners could only watch their fellow Germans in concern, and the Easterners could only watch the fence growing longer with quiet resignation.

Still, there was hope in seeing.

The wire got worse in 1962.

The guards were doubled in number, and the no-man's land was extended. The Easterners could barely distinguish the faces of known Westerners, but, at least, they _were_ still visible.

Gilbert and Ludwig came every day.

Gilbert, prior to the birth of the fence, had been studying on the American side of Berlin in the field of criminal justice. Had been; he could no longer go to school. The border shut down _everything_. Including all jobs and studies.

For all it mattered, anyway. He'd ditched most of the time and had been flunking nearly every class when the border had closed. School had been a formality only; one to keep anyone from taking Ludwig from his care because he had been irresponsible. Going to 'school' sounded good and gave him clout at being a responsible adult when he was the farthest thing from. Gilbert hadn't ever had intentions of paying attention, and less intentions of actually graduating. He went only to meet people that he could cause trouble with and get high with. Why not? The course he had chosen was as ridiculous as could be for a man like him; a fuckin' cop. A man like him, reckless and violent and troublesome. In fact, when he had called Ludwig up and told him, the first words Gilbert had uttered had been, 'A cop, can you imagine all the shit I can get away with if I'm a cop?'

Ludwig had only sighed.

Didn't matter anymore. No more classes. No more school. No more work.

He was trapped here.

Like a mouse.

Without something to do and without hope, Gilbert had joined an underground band of students that he had met here and there in the street, not because he believed much in their cause so much as he wanted to cause trouble, unbeknownst to the Westerner that he came here to watch every day.

Ludwig didn't know.

Ludwig.

Ludwig was the tall, handsome, bright young man that Gilbert had the _honor_ to call 'brother'. Even if he really wasn't. Not by blood. No; by something stronger. Didn't matter if he and Ludwig weren't blood. They were still brothers, in every sense. Everything he had _ever_ done had been for Ludwig. Waking up every morning had been for Ludwig. Getting out of bed had been for Ludwig. Standing there and hating everything but still smiling for it all had been for Ludwig. Ludwig represented the best of his life. Really the only good thing he'd ever known. The only saving grace.

The only part of his life that had ever really been worth it.

Ludwig was everything. Ludwig, his little brother.

Everything.

Ludwig had left Gilbert's supervision at seventeen years old, when he had moved out and left Gilbert for the first time, if only by distance and not by legality. Gilbert had still been his legal guardian, or would have been, anyway, if the world had given a damn about Ludwig. Gilbert had stayed on the West side back then with Ludwig to take care of, but when Ludwig had moved out Gilbert had been angry and gone back to the East where his flat was and where he had grown up. He should have stayed put.

How unfair, that those old sons of bitches high up in the government hadn't cared how much it _hurt_ , to see someone you loved being walled off across the way. To see, but not be able to touch.

Now, Ludwig just stood there, across the wire, back against a building and arms across his chest, and watched.

And, oh god, how Gilbert _missed_ him.

Missed Ludwig. He missed everything about Ludwig. His deep voice, his calm attitude, his gentleness, his kindness, his patience, his pale hair, his paler eyes, his even paler skin, his stoicism, the feel of his hands, and Christ almighty, he even missed the way Ludwig used to berate and chastise him. Missed Ludwig arguing with him. Missed Ludwig's endearing looks of exasperation and annoyance. Missed fighting with him, even.

Missed Ludwig.

He couldn't touch Ludwig anymore. Missed the feeling of Ludwig.

It wasn't fair.

Ludwig took this horrible oppression as he always took things, with calm grace and dignity, and just stood there across the wire, never saying a word. He wouldn't react as Gilbert did, by fighting back, and would only watch things unfold as they would. That was just Ludwig. As far as obedient Ludwig was concerned, rules were rules.

No matter how cruel.

But Ludwig was so _patient_ —he could have waited until the end of the earth for all of this to be resolved and for that wire to be torn down, but Gilbert couldn't.

Waiting.

There was no passing. Not now. He'd missed his great opportunity, when the wire had been the shortest and lightly guarded. He could've jumped. He hadn't. He didn't know _why_. And so now he was stuck in limbo, lingering in the shadows and watching the world zoom by without him. Watching Ludwig was really the only reminder that he was still part of life. Because otherwise, he felt pretty damn dead.

Ludwig's hair gleamed in the sunlight, like a lighthouse for the weary soul.

Missed him so much.

Couldn't touch him.

They always appeared at high noon, always at the same spot. Gilbert sat cross-legged on the hood of an abandoned car that overlooked the construction zone, and Ludwig stood rigidly against the wall of a store front. At the beginning, they had sometimes had difficulty finding each other through the mass of people, but now...

The crowds were gone. Only a few stragglers like themselves remained. All the rest were either too frightened of the guards, or too heart-broken at the sight. Hard to watch it all unfold for most.

Gilbert's heart was too hard to break, and Ludwig was frightened of nothing.

So they stayed.

They sat in silence until they were just too tired to carry on, sometimes before dark, sometimes after. They kept only constant eye contact, but they never tried to speak. They were too far away from each other to even read lips, let alone hear. Gilbert just looked for Ludwig's pale gleam, and no doubt Ludwig did the same to locate Gilbert.

Watching.

The stillness of the afternoon was broken only by the sounds of construction, the barking of the dogs, and sometimes the whirring of a Russian-made tank. People talking.

Gilbert regretted now that he had not just stayed on the West side, as Ludwig had begged him to so many times. His pride had done him in. Had gone over so many times to visit, but had never stayed.

Gilbert had been too stubborn, too bitter.

That last day in the West. Those words that had been exchanged. Some stupid fight. He always started a fight. He had heard the rumors about a wall, of course he had, but he hadn't ever thought it would really _happen_. Ludwig had crossed his arms and turned his back as Gilbert tried to keep on arguing, as always, and he had gone back home feeling so angry and so hurt. When Ludwig had called him the next day (that long forgotten Saturday), begging him to come back because something was going to happen, Gilbert had hung up the phone, sat down, and stayed stubbornly put.

Just wanted to make Ludwig angry.

His pride cost him dearly.

Too late now, and all they could do was to keep their constant vigil, so that Ludwig would know that Gilbert was alive and well, and so that Gilbert would know that Ludwig had not forgotten him. He'd die if Ludwig ever forgot him. Ludwig was all he lived for.

They came every day.

In '63, some foolhardy, desperate Easterner thought he could break through the barricade. The young idiot stole, somehow, a Russian armored carrier and crashed it straight through the wire. It worked; he was shot, granted, but the Western police saved him from demise. He was, undoubtedly, living in comfort now on the Americanized side. Lucky bastard. It had consequences for the others left behind.

In '65, the concrete blocks came in. They started to stack them, and Gilbert realized with a pang that every day, his view of Ludwig was becoming increasingly compromised.

In two weeks, only their heads were visible.

Ludwig looked so _sad_. Couldn't stand the sight.

The last days dragged out the longest, and when Ludwig had to stand on his toes just to meet Gilbert's gaze, they forgot all hunger and exhaustion and stayed out until the sun rose the next morning.

The last time.

The next day, Gilbert came out, and felt the threatening sting of tears in his eyes.

He could not see Ludwig.

It was just too tall, and even when he stood straight up on the car, it was to no avail. And he feared to climb higher, as the guard's towers were higher too. They might have shot him if he started to look too suspicious.

He was not afraid of death, never had been, but he _was_ afraid of leaving Ludwig behind. Of not seeing Ludwig again.

Ludwig was so vulnerable.

No. Not really. Certainly, at some level, Ludwig was vulnerable, always had been, but it was Gilbert now who felt the most vulnerable. No matter how much he denied it. He was afraid to die because if he _did_ , then he would never see Ludwig again, and he couldn't bear the thought. He did not believe in heaven or hell, didn't believe in god, nothing. When he was gone, he was gone for good, and so he couldn't leave this world until he had had his fill. He couldn't leave Ludwig, not now, because if he did then they weren't ever going to see each other again.

Just wanted to touch him one more time.

Ludwig was everything.

For now, he would stay back, accept the fact that he had temporarily lost the only family he had, and try to think of ways to get out. Talking to Ludwig on the phone just wasn't enough. He wanted him back.

Days passed.

He tried to keep his head high, even as he found himself staring at the wall and wondering if Ludwig was doing the same. Couldn't see anymore.

A week later, Gilbert awoke in his tiny, bland flat, and when he sat up in bed, a strange sound caught his attention immediately. The sound of silence. There were no longer the noises of the construction workers shouting orders, the hum of the crane, or the ferocity of the jackhammer.

Just silence.

He knew what it meant.

Leaning forward on his crumbled bed sheets, Gilbert held his head in his hands, and gave a heavy sigh of begrudging acceptance.

The wall was complete.


	2. Bad to Worse

**Chapter 2**

**Bad to Worse**

"I can't take it here anymore."

There was a short silence, and then, above the soft, crackling static of a vacant radio station came a whispered, "I know."

Rumbling from above. Dust in the light.

"I understand, I really do."

The voice came from a short, pretty woman, dressed in a long blouse and a skirt that was several sizes too big, held up at the center of her waist with a woven belt. She watched Gilbert with anxious green eyes, and reached up, running her hand through brown waves in utter exasperation.

"It's wearing everyone down. Be patient."

Gilbert didn't immediately respond, staring blankly at the wall ahead, lost in his own world.

Wasn't patient.

"There still might be a way to get out. Don't give up yet. Roderich has been mussing up to one of the GDR generals. Maybe he can push again for another visa. You'll just have to be _patient_." She furrowed her brow at his silence, and added, "Are you listening? Gilbert?"

Gilbert wasn't, resting his back against the table as he chewed his thumbnail furiously, uncombed hair falling into his eyes.

He missed Ludwig.

Dropping her head and groaning in frustration, Erzsébet muttered bitterly, "I _hate_ inactive listeners, and I swear you're the _worst_ ," and then fell against the wall, crossing her arms above her chest.

Irritated. She always was with him.

The room they currently resided in was a small, dimly lit, and exceedingly dingy safe room; in other words, a hideout. It wasn't cozy, not in any sense, but it was secret from the _Stasi_ , and that was what really mattered. It was underground, the basement of a factory that had been abandoned for many years. It was underneath the railroad tracks, and every time a train passed from above the entire room shook as though in an earthquake, knocking debris from the ceiling and making the hanging lamp swing to and fro.

The air was dusty.

The building had been under use from the _Unternehmen Reisebüro_ for several years now, and they had yet to be discovered, in a small part to cleverness, and in a great part to fantastical luck. It was a rebel student group, joining members of both East and West universities in creating a passage for escapees into the West. They had been extremely successful in the earlier years, but it was becoming more and more difficult to cross the border, and now they mostly laid in wait, plotting impossible plots and making ever-newer maps of the most obscure roads through the city.

Gilbert was here as a member.

Sort of. He messed with them, from time to time, whenever he had been feeling restless or violent.

He could have gotten out years ago when everything had been so much more lax, through the tunnels or sewers, or with fake papers, but every time he had called Ludwig to hint vaguely at his plans, the other had quickly and urgently talked him out of it. Ludwig had been too scared, thinking that Gilbert would get caught, and so Gilbert had humored him and waited.

It was 'too dangerous,' Ludwig had said. It _was_ , now more than ever. He should have just ignored Ludwig's concern and darted across when he had had the chance. Now he merely lingered here, dreaming of freedom. Or, at least, the opportunity to fight back. Hated the Reds. Always had. Hated this government here.

Which was why he was waiting so impatiently, expecting...

Erzsébet had come by to talk some sense into him no doubt, but she didn't really seem to have much more patience than he did, so he didn't know why the hell she was nagging him about it. That woman. The only one he had ever bothered to get to know. Normally, he would have refused the company of a woman, finding most of them too delicate and weepy for his liking, but Erzsébet was probably more intimidating to a passerby than _he_ was. The way she was. Good god. That woman was more of a man than he was.

She was an escapee of her own, in a sense. She had tried unsuccessfully to cross the Hungarian border on numerous occasions, finally succeeding when she had met Roderich, the handsome Austrian ambassador to West Germany, who, in a fit of passion and perhaps chivalry, had married her and sent for an expedited marriage visa. A visa was just as good as any red-blooded run. The same outcome.

Now, she traveled with Roderich on his many visits to both Germanies, keeping watch over Ludwig in the West and Gilbert in the East, and sometimes whispering favors for Gilbert in Roderich's ear. Even though Roderich hated Gilbert. Erzsébet was brave, fearless and quick-witted, ready to offer safety for a friend, motherly and kind, and—

"Hey! Gilbert! Someone's here!"

She fell back into a corner in alarm, but Gilbert had no fear, knowing full well that it was just another member of the underground. Those dumb little students. He hadn't ever fit in with them too well, but they liked his aggression, and he liked their ideas.

Worked out.

The door burst open, but Gilbert kept his eyes firmly locked with those of Erzsébet, and said, "You need to do something for me." She could only nod, as a heavily-clothed man barged down the stairs, holding a box tightly to his chest. Gilbert distracted her by adding, "Go back to the other side, and find Ludwig. Tell him to wait two days, and then go over to where we used to watch each other. Tell him to wait for me. And I'll meet him there. Two days."

The box fell to the floor with a dull thud, and he and Gilbert exchanged curt handshakes, and when the man left Erzsébet turned back to Gilbert, asking apprehensively, "What are you planning, Gilbert?"

He didn't answer, kneeling to the floor and cutting the box open with a knife. She looked inside, over his shoulder, and he could hear her gasp aloud when she saw the guns and the grenades.

" _Gilbert_!"

He took a grenade, gingerly, and tucked it into his pocket.

"I'm going to blow up a _Stasi_ office," he said, simply, "and when they're distracted, I'm going to see Ludwig."

A horrible silence.

Erzsébet shifted her weight anxiously, and then she could contain herself no longer. Probably thinking, no doubt, that that was the stupidest damn thing to ever come out of Gilbert's mouth. Funnily enough, that's exactly what she was thinking.

" _Gilbert_ ," she cried, loudly, "That's the stupidest thing you've ever said! There's no way you'll get close enough there to do anything, and even if you do! What then? They'll catch you before you can get far enough away! They'll kill you! You'll get _shot_ —are you _stupid_? This doesn't make any sense! Let me speak to Roderich again, and see if he can get the visa this time! You're so stupid!"

It didn't make sense, sure. Probably had a lot to do with Gilbert coming up with this 'plan' when he had been high as a kite. He stuck with it, regardless.

"He's tried three times already," Gilbert replied, ignoring her jabs at his intelligence (which were very fair), putting two hand-guns under his coat. "I don't just want to get out; I want to cause some chaos while I do it."

Just wanted to hurt someone.

" _Gilbert_!"

"Go and do what I say. Tell Ludwig. Two days. Don't look for me, I won't be home."

With that, fully-armed and confident, he strode straight past her, ignoring her pleas for rationality.

"How can you see Ludwig if you're _dead_?"

He was _sick_ of rationality. Wanted to hurt someone, wanted to get across the wall, wanted to see Ludwig, wanted everything. Everything.

Wanted Ludwig.

He had promised Ludwig, when he was a child, that they would _always_ be together. Forever. He would not break that promise. Had broken so many, and didn't want to break that one. Had always let Ludwig down, every day, and wouldn't do it this time.

As he slammed the door behind him, he glimpsed Erzsébet sinking onto the stairs, holding her head in her hands as she moaned, "You're so _stupid_."

It was too late for him. She couldn't help him anymore. No one really could. He was beyond all help from the real world. Just lived up in his head now, with his own rules.

He missed Ludwig.

Together wasn't together across a wall.

* * *

While the other side of the wall may have been freer, the atmosphere and attitude was certainly just as dreary. It was hard to keep high-spirits when your fellow countrymen were being oppressed just yards away, their only crime being that they just happened to live in the East.

How unfair.

Ludwig's spirits were getting lower and lower every day. And that was coming from a man that had never really had high spirits to begin with.

He couldn't see Gilbert. Talking on the phone just wasn't the same. Gilbert's voice never _changed_ ; always confident and charismatic and aggravatingly self-confident. Without seeing his eyes and his face, how could Ludwig really know that Gilbert was as safe and sound as he said he was? How could he know if his brother was depressed, or frightened?

If Gilbert was drinking himself to death as he always had.

He couldn't.

The not knowing was the worst of it.

Ludwig was falling into a great black hole. He'd always had a penchant for becoming depressed easily, but it had been easier to brush it off when Gilbert had been there beside of him, ready to ruffle his hair and throw a loving arm around his shoulder. Had been able to hold it together his entire life, propped up as he was upon others, held up so firmly by Roderich, and even when the wall had been built he had stood strong.

Somehow, it was not being able to _see_ Gilbert that did Ludwig in. Just one hit too many, he supposed.

Everyone was worried for him, he knew. Could see it on their faces, and maybe he should have tried harder to pretend, just for them, but it was harder every day. Couldn't find the will, the nerve, the motivation. He just didn't _care_. He missed Gilbert. Dumb Gilbert, so reckless and volatile. Who knew what he was up to?

The not knowing was the _worst_.

Now, he sat slouched at his desk, one arm holding up his head as he held his pen in his mouth absently, neglected schools books beneath him.

Gilbert had probably started drinking harder than ever. Probably back on the pills, too. Lost in bars and raves. Drunk and high and causing trouble, getting into fights, breaking things. He was probably in jail, in fact, at this very second. Getting sucked into that black hole, alright, and he was dragging Ludwig in right along with him.

Staring vacantly out the window, lost out in space, Ludwig failed to hear the door to his room creak open. Lately, alertness had not been his strong point, and he jumped out of his seat in a shameful manner when a strong arm wrapped itself suddenly around his neck mercilessly.

"Hey! More study, less sleepy! That thing's not gonna write itself, ya know!"

That voice. Comforting and annoying all at once.

Ludwig rolled his eyes immediately, and sighed, falling back down into his seat.

"Thanks for the wake-up call," Ludwig grumbled, and his obnoxious roommate bent down, arm still in its choke-hold position, observing Ludwig's half-complete essay with a snide smile.

"What's _that_? Ha! I've written better things in my sleep!"

And maybe he actually had, Ludwig thought bitterly, because Alfred would _have_ to be asleep to write anything at all. How this insufferable, spoiled, loud-mouthed, all-American brat had ever even gotten into the university in the first place...

"Careful!" Ludwig managed to hiss, as Alfred's arm tried very hard to strangle the life out of him, the other hand coming up to Ludwig's back, "Or else you'll have to find someone else to write this shit for you."

The arm released, and Alfred was very quick to pull up the other chair, rest his elbow on the desk, and leer at Ludwig very happily.

"Whoa! Threats, on such a fine day? What would you do with yourself if you couldn't write my essays for me?"

Ludwig tapped the pen on the desk, and then said, curtly, "Well. I guess I could have a _life_. Like normal people."

Alfred, reached out and punched him in the arm, playfully, and cried, " _Hey_! If you don't wanna do my homework for me anymore, that's cool, but don't sit here and try to bullshit me about a social life you don't have. Loser."

Ouch.

"Anyway, you can't stop! You're my secret weapon! My grades are way better now than ever because of you, you know," Alfred continued, quite enthusiastically, and he threw himself suddenly down on Ludwig's bed, arms resting behind his head. "The teachers just don't get it! Ha! Guess _I'm_ the smart one in class now."

"Every dog must have his day," Ludwig muttered, and sighed, slumping forward again as his mood dampened.

Even with Alfred around, the same old thing just kept popping into his head.

Gilbert.

Alfred didn't miss it, and chirped, easily, "Ahh, he's _fine_. Trust me."

Trust. He trusted Alfred. He _did_. And he appreciated the effort, but it wasn't really helping. Just wasn't enough this time like it always had been before.

Although, he couldn't help but admit, he was grateful that he was not alone. He would have gone crazy by now. Alfred _was_ obnoxious, and loud, and annoying, and self-satisfied and egotistical and a pain in the ass, but at present he was the only thing keeping Ludwig sane. And the words 'Alfred' and 'sane' were not two words he had _ever_ expected to meet in a sentence, except, presumably, 'Alfred is making me less and less sane with every passing second'.

Strange, but true. His best friend.

Then again, his and Alfred's entire relationship could probably be summed up by a simple 'strange'.

They had met at the university. Well. Actually, outside of it.

Ludwig was seventeen the first time he had stood out there in front of the grand building, watching students flow in and out, staring up at the stone columns and the arches with his hands in his pockets. Wanting desperately to walk in, but knowing it wouldn't do him any good. So many days spent just staring. Daydreaming. People walked by him, fast and blurry, as he stood still and just watched. Days, weeks, months, and then an entire year, and no one had ever spared him a glance. No one had ever stopped to say, 'Hello'.

Until Alfred.

He remembered clearly that day. Cloudy. The first day of the semester. Alfred's first day there.

Ludwig stood there daydreaming as always, because he didn't have anything else to do. Gilbert had been gone, and the apartment Roderich had gotten him was utterly empty besides himself and staying inside alone was driving Ludwig very close to insanity.

Wanted Gilbert, and had only anxiety.

Felt as if he were suffocating in there alone. No air.

He'd stood out there in front of that building, and suddenly, out of the blue, a messy-haired, bespectacled young man had cast a shadow over him. Ludwig had come out of his daydream long enough to see him lean forward, amicable blue eyes lit up by the sun, and ask, in choppy German, 'Say, you lost?'

Ludwig had only stared at him then, too stunned to move, and the handsome young man had pressed on, casting a thumb over his shoulder as he added, 'I'm new too, but I can show ya around, I think! I'll try, anyway.'

It had been with a great sense of melancholy that Ludwig had finally shaken his head, and said, 'I don't go here. Thanks, though.'

Ludwig had turned on his heel and walked off, and as he went he could feel the man's eyes upon him. He hadn't gone back for a few days after that, a little embarrassed somehow although he had always wanted someone to notice him. Old habits die hard though, and it had been a week or so before Ludwig had found himself wandering around outside the university again. He'd never had any intentions of bumping into that man again. It had happened all the same.

Ludwig had been staring up, like he always did, wondering how it felt to hold books like that and have something _more_ to look forward to, and suddenly that shadow was over him again. That oddly unforgettable voice.

'Man! For someone who doesn't go here, you sure do come around a lot.'

No one had ever spoken to him, let alone remembered him. Maybe it was just because Gilbert was gone and he had been lonely. Maybe. Whatever the reason, when the man had extended a hand and said, 'I'm Alfred!,' Ludwig had accepted it, and tried to smile.

'Ludwig.'

'So, Ludwig! You just like standin' outside of schools and watchin' people walk, or are you lookin' for a girl, 'cause I know a few pretty ones!'

...right.

Maybe, in some part of his mind, he had hoped a girl would see him there. Say hello. Notice him.

Embarrassing questions aside, Ludwig would never forget that day. The first day he had ever made a friend in his life. So isolated his entire life, sheltered and boarded up by Gilbert, and so new now to the vast world. Maybe he had looked as lost as he felt, because Alfred had honed in on him immediately and took him under his wing, so to speak. Every day, Ludwig stood outside the university, and that time he had a reason to, because he waited for Alfred to get out and come over to talk to him.

Pitiful, yeah, but what else did he have? Gilbert was in the East and Roderich was always working. Alone. Vulnerable.

As it turned out, he and Alfred got on quite well. They had learned more and more about each other with every passing day, and Alfred seemed as happy to see Ludwig waiting as Ludwig was to wait on Alfred.

Somehow, they had fit together so well.

Ludwig had always been an outcast, and in a way Alfred was too, still learning German and with no friends or family in Germany. He must have felt a little alone, and for that he sought out Ludwig. They had clicked, instantly. Ludwig could stand Alfred's occasional bouts of complete and inexcusable American-ness (for lack of any other possible description), and Alfred seemed immune to Ludwig's sometimes sharp tongue and dismal moods. The more they had gotten to know each other, the more Alfred grew on him, and when the blond Yank had proposed getting a flat and splitting the rent, it had sounded alright.

He was tired of being alone. Gilbert was gone. He had just had first panic attack not long before, the most terrifying moment of his life, and didn't want to be alone because he never wanted to feel that way again.

Alfred had been there.

So he told Roderich that he didn't need the apartment anymore, because he had made a friend and was moving in. At first, Roderich had sounded worried, a little, but that had quickly faded and Roderich had been so happy, so proud, and Ludwig knew that it was because Roderich was pleased that Ludwig was out from under Gilbert's thumb and living his own life for the first time.

Missed Gilbert so much, but being with Alfred made Ludwig happy, and for that Ludwig would have done anything for him.

They moved in together, splitting bills evenly although only Alfred's name was on the lease and Ludwig's money of course came from Roderich. Ludwig couldn't remember the last time he had been so happy, making a friend like that. He and Alfred grew closer every day, and before long they knew everything about each other, absolutely everything.

Ludwig learned that Alfred was the only son of an American fighter pilot, who had flown spitfires over Germany when the war was at its peak. He had grown up hearing that Germany was the home of the devil, and, when he was eighteen, he had decided to cross the ocean and find out for himself. 'I came during Oktoberfest,' he joked sometimes, 'and I never went back!' Alfred had always loved Germany, and for that had learned the language very quickly. Alfred was dumb, but not stupid. Lacked common sense and tact, but Alfred was smart, damn smart, even if he didn't show it. So easy to talk to him.

Ludwig told Alfred things he would never have told anyone. Not Gilbert. Not even Roderich and Erzsébet. He talked about Gilbert, and his life. Or what he remembered of it, anyway. Told Alfred all about it, about how Gilbert wasn't his real brother, how Ludwig had never known his parents, how Roderich had found Ludwig walking all alone in the street with no memory and had taken him home. About how Gilbert became Ludwig's world, how much he loved Gilbert, would die for him. But he also told Alfred about all of the bad times, told Alfred all about Gilbert's addictions, his craziness, his possessiveness and violence.

Told Alfred everything, and Alfred just listened. Something Ludwig had never had.

The years started flying by, the wall got higher, Ludwig's mood sank deeper, but Alfred was always there to hold Ludwig's head above the water. Always. Ludwig knew that no matter how bad it got, Alfred would always be there. Alfred let Ludwig start doing some of his university schoolwork, to take his mind off of things and because Ludwig liked it, and Ludwig pretended that he was doing Alfred a favor when it was really the other way around.

Alfred tried to alleviate some of the pain with his own brand of optimism, and sometimes Alfred said things so absolutely _stupid_ that Ludwig couldn't help but burst into laughter, despite it all. Those moments, when Alfred made Ludwig laugh, Alfred looked as if he had won his own war. Alfred was gorgeous when he smiled, when he was happy, and Ludwig was able to feed off of his optimism for those five years. The stupid things Alfred would sometimes _say_! So absurd, and Ludwig loved it.

'Well, look on the bright side! If Gilbert _does_ kick the bucket, you'll always be able to say, 'my brother said 'better dead than Red,'' and all the chicks will think you're hot shit!'

Ludwig loved Alfred, and knew, in Alfred's smile, that the feeling was mutual.

But the wall was finished, and Ludwig suddenly couldn't see Gilbert anymore. Couldn't see his face for that very first time, and when he had come back home that day, Ludwig had had his first panic attack since he had been seventeen. One of the worst moments of his life, the absolute worst, unable to breathe, chest clenched up and dizzy from lack of oxygen, as a panicked Alfred held him and tried so frantically to calm him down.

After that, the attacks became frequent, far too frequent, and Alfred came home one day with a bottle of pills. Pills—Ludwig was so scared of pills, terrified by the notion of them, because nothing good had ever come from Gilbert putting them back by the handful.

But Alfred had insisted, pleading, looked so distraught, and the fact that Alfred had gone to a doctor and pretended that _he_ was having panic attacks just to get medication for Ludwig, Ludwig finally relented. Didn't know what else to do. Just Valium, after all, Alfred said. Just to calm him down when he started feeling too anxious and too down, just when it got too bad. Alfred had begged him, just to take a pill when he felt that way, and Ludwig had obeyed.

What else could he do?

Hated the feel of those panic attacks, and hated more so Alfred looking like that.

So, when it got bad, Ludwig took a pill, and let the medication calm him down when Alfred just couldn't.

Lethargy and surrealism was a hell of a lot better than not being able to breathe, and Ludwig realized before long that he was taking the pills more frequently than he probably needed to, wasn't waiting anymore until the need was dire, but Alfred didn't care and seemed pleased and so Ludwig finally stopped fretting so much about it.

Like everything, though, it just wasn't enough. It wasn't ever _enough_.

He wanted Gilbert to be here in the West, where he could see him and touch him and be absolutely certain that everything was going to be alright.

His pen tapped the table. Alfred's essay was forgotten.

"Ludwig," Alfred suddenly called, and Ludwig looked over his shoulder to see that Alfred had pulled himself up into a sitting position, legs hanging off the bed and propping himself up on his palms. Alfred, as always, could see Ludwig's mood, and, like always, tried to cheer him up. "Say, what you think about this weekend? I got a girl that's been asking about you. She saw us walking. She's cute...? Don't say 'no' this time, eh?"

A rush of warmth to his cheeks, and, for just one second, Ludwig felt _better_.

Alfred was a good friend, always had been.

Ludwig meant to speak, but before he could open his mouth to reply, the door to his room burst open again, and a woman barged in. She stopped there in the doorframe, looking a little hassled and a little _weird_ , and they gawked at her in alarm. Hadn't heard a knock, and hadn't heard the front door open.

A surge of anxiety in Ludwig's chest, just at the look of her. Any man would feel that, after all, seeing their mother barge in looking so utterly frazzled. Erzsébet was essentially Ludwig's mother, as much as Roderich was his father.

"Lutz, you really gotta start lockin' this house _up_ , man," Alfred murmured, covering his chest with his arms as though abashed at Erzsébet's sudden intrusion.

He was one to talk! Alfred hadn't locked the door one damn time since they had moved in, and Ludwig was usually the one to sigh and go back. ...usually, but apparently today he had forgotten as well.

Erzsébet, ignoring the words with a look of panic, bolted inside and shut the door behind her.

" _Ludwig_ ," she cried, urgently, "We have to talk. It's about Gilbert."

The air changed.

Immediately, Alfred's hands fell into his lap, his face scrunching up in a rare moment of seriousness. Funny; when Alfred focused like that, he didn't look at all like himself. Looked stern and hard and older, unshakeable. Alfred's best moments, perhaps, were when he was serious.

Ludwig's heart started to race. Cold sweat. Oh. Dumb Gilbert. What had he done _now_?

"Has something happened?" Ludwig finally asked, when she made no move to continue, his cool voice masking his fear.

Her hands twisted in the folds of her skirt.

"Not yet, but it might."

"What's going on?"

She hesitated, uncertain, but finally sat down beside of Alfred, opened her mouth, and told them everything. She had no worries about speaking such sensitive information in front of Alfred; he had a big mouth, sure, but he would never betray a friend's confidence, and as far as they had been concerned, if Ludwig trusted Alfred then so could they.

She told them of Gilbert's increasingly reckless behavior, his declining patience and sanity, his arrogance, and his foolish plan for escape in his desperation to be reunited.

With every word, Ludwig could feel his face become more pallid. Like the life had literally drained right out of him. He couldn't _believe_ it; Gilbert had wanted to do it so many times before, but he had been talked out of it so easily. All Ludwig had had to do was say, 'no way, it's too risky!' and Gilbert backed off. And those plans surely had not been so suicidal.

That stupid man, fuckin' Gilbert. Had to be him.

Ludwig fell back in his chair, dizzy and sick, and then there came a horrible twinge of guilt rising in his chest.

Ah, hell. This was his fault, really. Maybe. If he had tried harder to get Gilbert to stay on this side before the border had closed. If he had been less severe in his repression of the earlier attempts. Maybe if he had just _called_ more often, just to talk and reassure Gilbert that everything would be back to normal soon. Just to wait. Just to be patient. They had fought when he had moved out, so badly, and Ludwig hadn't talked to him for a damn year, and now he hadn't been calling every day like before.

It was _his_ fault.

Burying his face in his hands, Ludwig shook his head, and gave a great moan. Chest already clenching up, could feel, but couldn't even move then to get up and rummage around for the pills.

Erzsébet saw his distress, and, like Alfred, tried to help. "Listen to me, Ludwig. I'll try to stop him, as best I can. Roderich can always find reasons for me to stay in East Berlin, so I'll go over, and let you know if I can find him, but... If you don't hear from me, and if he's not on this side in two or three days..."

She trailed off, and the unspoken outcome was stifling.

'...then don't expect to ever see him again.'

Gilbert.

It was _his_ fault.

"I'll go with you," Ludwig said, immediately, so sick that he couldn't think, and he leapt to his feet deliriously, as if he really could just waltz right on over, but she shook her head, reminding him quite brutally of the impossibility.

"How's that? Trying to get you over there is just as hard as trying to get _him_ out."

Her look was a little stern, and Ludwig fell still, and bowed his head, defeated. Felt so useless, suddenly. She was right. There was nothing more _he_ could do; Gilbert's fate was beyond his control, resting solely on Erzsébet's slim chance of tracking him down and then the slimmer chance of her actually wrangling him.

Ludwig fell back down into his chair, and stared at the floor.

Could barely breathe, and reached up without thought to tug at his collar as air seemed harder to find.

An awful silence, and then—

"I'm going with you," Alfred suddenly cried, and he leapt to his feet to take Ludwig's place.

What?

Ludwig looked up at him, and sometimes, it surprised him still. The look that Alfred got in his eyes when he was passionate about something. When he wanted to help. Brow low and eyes wide, shoulders braced and bristling from head to toe, pupils dilated and nostrils flaring. That stern look that came with that seriousness. Looked as if Alfred could have done absolutely _anything_ , when he wore that expression. Ludwig, honestly, had never seen anything like Alfred, not when he was taking charge.

Alfred's fearlessness.

When he looked like _that_ , Ludwig would have followed Alfred anywhere, because he looked so sure and so confident that victory, whatever form it may have come in, seemed so inevitable.

Erzsébet scoffed, though, and immediately said, "No. You're not."

Ever the firm mother, but Alfred was undaunted, that look still there on his face, and suddenly he was staring Erzsébet down.

"What?" Alfred asked, with a lift of his chin and a long rake up and down of her, " _You're_ gonna stop him? All alone? You think you're strong enough to control him when he's like that? Really? You really think you'll be able to stop him?"

Ludwig looked back and forth between them, and felt so much dread then that he couldn't speak or move. Could only watch fate leave him out, as always, and trust other people to live his life for him.

At last, Erzsébet relented, because Gilbert was strong and violent, made more so by drugs and adrenaline, and there was no possible way she could have ever overpowered him and pulled him back. Gilbert was like a damn bull, and it would take a good bit of muscle to subdue him.

Muscle was Alfred's specialty, and so she finally nodded.

Alfred just smiled, and went to Ludwig instantly, clapping his hands down on Ludwig's shoulders and leaning down. Ludwig just stared up at him, dumbly, and tried to take some of that confidence from him as he always had before.

Just didn't work this time.

A low, sincere whisper.

"I'll get him for you. It'll be alright, you'll see. Trust me."

He trusted Alfred, all the way, always had, and so Ludwig finally found enough mobility to nod his head.

It wasn't much of a plan, they all knew it, but, hell. It was the only chance they had, really. What else could they do? Stupid Gilbert, so stupid. Couldn't ever wait. Couldn't ever be patient. Couldn't ever control himself. Putting other _people_ in danger. Gilbert didn't care about anyone but himself, never had. Alfred should never have gone across that border, because Alfred didn't have anything to do with this. Risking his life, for a man he didn't know, just because he cared about Ludwig.

Made him sick.

Sometimes, Ludwig _hated_ Gilbert.

"Let's get going then. Now."

As they moved toward the door, Alfred turned back, and caught Ludwig's eye. A long stare, a quick crinkle of Alfred's brow, as his eyes flitted over Ludwig. As if Alfred was trying to _see_ him, really see him, to get a last look at him, just in case.

Just in case?

Was about to fall over dead, he knew it, from that awful feeling. He inhaled, sharply, as the urge to cry came up, and that awful stare between him and Alfred felt far too long. Alfred inclined his head, suddenly, saying a silent goodbye, and Ludwig's face crumpled.

The door shut, and they were gone.

Once again, Ludwig was forced to remain on the sidelines, with no inkling as to what was going on across the wall. Not knowing.

The second they were gone, Ludwig suddenly found the strength to move, and bolted to the kitchen to frantically grab that bottle of pills, and this time he took two instead of one and waited. Waiting. All he ever did.

He was so useless.

All Gilbert ever did was get into trouble.


	3. Before the Storm

**Chapter 3**

**Before the Storm**

Erzsébet didn't spook easily.

She never had. Even in her youth, she had been unshakeable to the most frightening moments in life; she had never worried that there was a monster in her closet, she had never been scared of the school bully, she had never cried when her parents were divorcing, she had not been frightened the first time that Roderich had kissed her hand, and she had not been scared at the prospect of leaving her native Hungary to live in Austria.

But even she shuddered every single time the GDR guards at the East German border stared her down, observing every minute detail about her appearance, scanning her visa with calculated ruthlessness, their dogs barking so close that she could feel their hot breath on her legs. This was the first time she had crossed without Roderich firmly at her side; a mistake, perhaps? Maybe she was just foolhardy to believe that this could have a happy ending.

But Ludwig. Poor Ludwig. He was slipping down a great cliff. That kid was the closest thing she had ever had to a son. Her and Roderich had only ever wanted him to live with them. To be a real family. Couldn't let him down, just couldn't. She would have done anything to make Ludwig happy. Ludwig should have been happy, _deserved_ to be happy.

Without Gilbert, Ludwig just kept on fading.

"And you, sir?"

"Me? Oh, I'm just..."

Beside her, Alfred was shifting his weight anxiously from one foot to the other, smiling non-threateningly when needed and looking slightly ill the rest of the time that he spoke. She could only hope that he didn't trip up as they asked him the most intense of questions, meant to rattle him. Alfred was certainly an example of supreme confidence, but how did he hold up under pressure?

When Alfred spoke then to the guard, he spoke in English, although his German was perfect, and his voice was higher and friendlier. "Well! I'd rather tour around with you Russki's any day! I hear it's fun over here. Everything is cheap."

Quite well, apparently. Good.

The guard barely suppressed a roll of his eyes, but didn't suppress his sneer.

Alfred came off as too utterly idiotic to be anything _but_ an American tourist. Yeah, no offense Alfred, but even _he_ knew that his reputation around town wasn't the best. Her worries quickly passed when the guard's furrowed brow slowly came up, and he seemed to decide that the scuffling man with the untidy blond hair and geeky glasses was completely harmless. Dumb as hell, but harmless. Alfred used his stereotype to his advantage.

Whew.

"Alright," the guard barked, and ushered them through. "Keep a hold of your passports."

A more thorough guard would have, perhaps, thought it _odd_ that a seemingly normal American tourist was traveling side-by-side to East Germany with the Hungarian wife of the Austrian ambassador. A strange mash-up of anti-communist nationalities, to say the least. Must have had a long day, and just wanted to get these people through as quickly as possible.

They rushed through the barricade as soon as the gate was raised, and the giant breath that Alfred had been holding in subconsciously was exhaled in relief.

"Oh, man," he muttered lowly, voice trembling, "I think I pissed myself a little."

"Consider yourself lucky that that was the worst you got," she hissed back, as they tried to amalgamate inconspicuously into the crowd.

And that was the truth. Damn dogs sometimes nicked legs.

Didn't have time to soothe Alfred's frazzled nerves. Had to hurry.

Above them, the sky was dark with rain clouds that threatened to burst at any moment, and when they finally made their way into the lesser crowded side streets, Erzsébet froze up for a moment, uncertain suddenly of what to do. She'd never been here alone. Roderich had always navigated these streets. In a sense.

Where to go. So many directions. Gilbert could have been down any one of them.

Alfred stayed completely still and silent behind, allowing her to think, and then, with what might have been a shifty look, she reached back and grabbed his wrist, dragging him into the bowels of East Berlin, the hem of her long skirt muddying in the foul streets. They disappeared into the cramped, twisting alleyways at a jog, Erzsébet leading Alfred blindly by the hand. She didn't know where she was going, but had to keep moving, because she was fairly certain that she might have cried if she had stayed still.

Lost.

Alfred hunched over, tripping over his own feet as he tried to match her furious pace. She didn't know why she was running. Felt so helpless.

"Where are we _going_?" Alfred finally hissed, as she started turning this way and that in confusion, as memories betrayed her, and the alleyways here all looked exactly the _same_.

She ignored his question and only went faster, and he stumbled behind her.

" _Erzsébet_! Slow down! Where are we going?"

His cry brought her back to reality, and she slowed her pace, as the anxiety flooded in.

Oh. Didn't know where to _go_.

Why couldn't Gilbert ever be reasonable? Why did he always have to be this way?

"I..."

Lost.

She finally came to a halt, turning this way and that, here and there, and finally she hung her head, chest heaving for breath.

Alfred stared at her in wide-eyed alarm.

"Huh? Where are we going?"

She whirled around, and hissed, "I don't _know_! Alright? I don't know where he would be. I don't know. This city is so big, and I don't know where he's at. I think I'm _lost_."

She felt near tears, that horrible vulnerability that she had always hated, because poor Ludwig would be so distraught, and Alfred straightened up, placing his hand on his hip as he popped up on his toes and looked around, apparently trying to gather his thoughts. For all it would help. Alfred was as lost as she was, but seemed to be thinking all the same.

Her own thoughts were becoming increasingly dismal. Above all, the single thought of letting Ludwig _down_ seemed to be the worst. Ludwig had gone through so much for being so young. Ludwig just wanted Gilbert, and if she couldn't deliver, then she would fail in her role as a surrogate mother. Gilbert may not have been a stand-up guy, he might not have been a saint, and he actually wasn't really a very good person in general. Come to think, Gilbert was actually a pretty shitty human being, but he was _everything_ to Ludwig. Whatever could be said about Gilbert, Ludwig loved him.

Gilbert loved Ludwig.

That was enough, for her, to risk all of this. Just to see them together again. Happy, in whatever way they could have been. She needed to find Gilbert, for Ludwig's sake. No matter what.

They just needed to take things into a better perspective. Get a better look around. Find a way.

Alfred, surprisingly, opened his mouth first.

"Well," he began, quietly, as he looked over either shoulder, "let's think. Gilbert said...that he was going to blow up a _Stasi_ building right?"

She nodded.

"Okay. And then he was going to cross the fence, right? So. We're never gonna find him out here! In all of this! I mean, I know it's dangerous, but what else can we do? ...we just have to stake out the closest _Stasi_ building to where he wanted Ludwig to go, and then see if we can nab him when he gets there. If he's going to blow it up, then he's got to get close enough to where we would be able to get him, right? If we can't hunt him down, then we can only wait. Hide out until we see him."

Alfred watched her expectantly, looking a little pale and sad despite his confident voice. Sad for Ludwig, no doubt, as she was, because in some way she knew that Alfred wasn't really afraid. Nervous, absolutely, but not truly afraid.

It was more than dangerous. To leave everything up to chance. To wait until the very last second, and risk absolute devastation. The last thing she ever wanted to do, but...

What else _could_ they do?

There was absolutely no possibility that they could find Gilbert in this labyrinth of a city on such a tight deadline, and if they continued searching in this manner, they were more than likely to draw unwanted GDR attention. Then they, too, would have a date with a _Stasi_ office, but it would not be under favorable circumstances. Gilbert would be lost. Ludwig would drift with him.

Well. What could she do?

There was no time to waste. The night was quickly approaching on the ominous second day that Gilbert had so vaguely mentioned; the entire day before had been wasted on sorting out Alfred's papers in Roderich's office. There was no choice. Even though she _hated_ it. They would hide out, stake the scenery, and when Gilbert showed up Erzsébet would wave her hand towards him. Alfred would charge at her command, knock the stupid bastard out if he had to, and then all they could do was take Gilbert home and knock some sense into him.

"Let's go."

She reclaimed Alfred's hand, and dragged him into the shadows.

Oh, Gilbert.

If he could have only waited.

* * *

Smiling.

Footsteps sounded out from the shadows.

The clouded skies gave not even the smallest window of opportunity for the moon or the stars to shine through. The city was on the verge of sleep, as the clocks were getting ever nearer the midnight hour.

Fog.

It was cold, and Gilbert's bulky coat was not an item of particular suspicion, and even though the streets were completely devoid of passersby, he kept the blank, ghostly smile plastered on his face. His eyes, almost hidden under overgrown bangs, were equally emotionless.

Just walk straight and smile. That was it. In this moment, in this city, and in this predicament, there was no room for emotion. It would have been a hindrance. How could he expect to pull off such a delicate operation if he was frightened, and his hand trembled? How could he expect to succeed if he were nervous, and he stumbled in the heat of flight? And how could he _ever_ expect to make it across the border if he were hesitant, and he faltered in a moment of weakness?

He had to stay blank now, and try to be patient.

He wanted to feel. He wanted to panic and turn back. He wanted to rush forward in excitement. He wanted to strike out in anger. But he couldn't. For now, he pushed aside every human impulse, as well the voice of reason in the back of his mind, in favor of a cold, mechanical thoughtlessness. He could feel the weight of the grenade in his hand, and the cool steel of the pistol against his waist, but he couldn't feel the excitement that should have accompanied them.

It was not something he was doing for pleasure, he had convinced himself. It was only an escape. A way out. Of course, that wasn't _completely_ true; despite every attempt to feel nothing, he could still sense the burning desire in his chest to cause harm. To someone. _Anyone_.

Killing even one goddamn _Stasi_ before he left would be the greatest fare-thee-well present anyone could ever have asked for.

Ludwig was waiting.

He checked the streets. Still empty. People were sleeping; heavy hearts made that easy.

Hated this place. Hated this side. Hated that _wall_.

Oh, Ludwig.

It had been _so_ long since he'd seen Ludwig. Did he still look the same? Had he gotten bigger? Ludwig was only twenty-three; they said you didn't stop growing until you were twenty-five. Maybe he was taller. Maybe he'd grown his hair out. Maybe he'd started dressing differently. Maybe he'd started experimenting with facial hair, like young men did.

Ludwig, his little brother with the older spirit.

Ludwig wouldn't condone what he was doing. He'd be disappointed. Always was. Ludwig had always been disappointed, because all Gilbert did was disappoint. Hadn't meant to. It hadn't been intentional. Hadn't ever wanted to hurt that kid. Loved Ludwig. Sometimes, though, he had just loved himself a little more.

The shadows shifted.

He was still a fair distance from his destination. With every step he took, his grip on the precious grenade tightened. It was all he had.

He would be there soon. Step. Look. Step. Look.

He smiled.

And he would keep smiling, all the way to freedom, and the entire Soviet Union could all go and fuck themselves as he held Ludwig tightly in his arms, whispering in his ear and promising him that now that they were together again, it would be for forever this time. He meant it this time.

He and Ludwig had been meant for each other. Together was the only way. Together, or nothing at all. Couldn't _be_ without Ludwig. They were supposed to be together. He knew it. He could feel it. Him and Ludwig. Shoulda been together all the time. Ludwig was his brother. His only family. His only connection to this world. His only reason to get out of bed. The only person who would ever even _notice_ if he were to disappear from the face of the earth. Maybe he hadn't done a great job as a big brother, maybe he'd only been a let-down, but Ludwig had loved him all the same.

Having someone love him even though he wasn't a good person, having unconditional love when he didn't _deserve_ it—couldn't ever let that go, not ever. Ludwig was the only person in the world that had ever loved him. He would do anything to get back to him.

A shadow. A strange presence washed over him, and he looked up instinctively when he shuddered.

There it was.

It was not an obviously noticeable building, save for the way it seemed to rise out of the gloom perhaps a bit more than the others did, bathed in the eerie, otherworldly light of the streetlamps. A normal Berliner would pass by it quickly, knowing what silent and stealthy danger lay within, but a tourist would never have given it a second thought.

Gilbert knew it well. He had, after all, watched this building compulsively for the past two months, scoping out its every feature. The front doors were a heavy steel; not impenetrable, but certainly an obstacle. An explosive blast would dispatch them.

His plan was not completely absurd, but was far from fool-proof.

Okay. Maybe it was bordering on absurd. Idiotic. Stupid. But, desperate times, etc.

He took a final scope of the street.

Slinking up towards the doorstep under cover of darkness, he would throw the concussion grenade, and run like a demon, as (theoretically) the flames of the explosion would block the _Stasi_ inside from immediately chasing after him. From there, he would continue his mad dash straight to the barbed wire fence, where (theoretically) the guards would leave their posts to run to the aid of their comrades. When they were gone, and, hopefully, the snipers in the towers were distracted, he would twist and crawl his way through the tangled wire, scale the wall, and emerge victorious on the other side.

Assuming everything played out now as it had so often in his head.

Ludwig would have shaken his head, and moaned, 'Oh, Gilbert, that's not gonna work. You really _are_ stupid.'

He should have known all along that such a fantasy was just that. Couldn't help it, really. Just wanted to hurt someone and get back to Ludwig.

His footsteps dissolved into complete silence as he approached, hands tensing in anticipation as stealth took over. He looked around in a moment of uncertainty, to make sure he was truly alone. He paused momentarily, foot in the air, thinking that he had perhaps seen a shifting off in the shadows. Frozen, he stared into the darkness of the alley. His eyes tried to penetrate the gloom.

Breathlessness.

He swore he had seen something, but as he squinted now, there was nothing. Nothing.

Unease.

He quickly brushed it off. There was no time to waste on paranoia. It was time to act. He was not trying to be obvious. Resting his foot on the very first step, he clutched the grenade in his fist, and took a deep breath. Once he pulled the pin, he had around five seconds to turn tail. Not long, but enough to clear some distance.

Five seconds to freedom. Five seconds to Ludwig.

Together, or nothing.

Swiftly, he reached up and plucked the pin from the top of the little bomb almost daintily, and flicked his wrist. Anyone passing would have merely thought that he was brushing off a piece of lint. The grenade made only a small, innocent 'clink' as it fell on the top step, near the door, and he snapped immediately around, foot in midair as he started to bolt.

The air was static. Blood pounded in his ears as his heart thudded.

He tried to run.

Energy.

But there was someone behind him.

Shock. He froze in his tracks in _horror_ the second he turned and came face to face with a pair of extremely familiar green eyes.

Good god!

"Gilbert!"

_Five._

Startled, he could only stare in a dumb stupor, eyes wide and mouth hanging open, and his mind barely registered that he was looking at Erzsébet. What the hell was _she_ doing here? A shift on the sidelines caught his eye, and he looked to her side. Alfred, too? That big dope. She'd sent him a picture once, of Alfred and Ludwig passed out in their living room above books and bottles of beer. He'd never met Alfred before, but wouldn't forget the sight of him, if only because Gilbert had been _angry_ that Ludwig was living with someone else. Had hated Alfred, without ever meeting him. Had been jealous of Alfred, so had burned his face into mind so that he'd know enough to punch him if they ever met.

Now might not have been a good time for _that_. Anyway...Alfred was quite a bit bigger in person than he had looked in the photo. A fight Gilbert possibly wouldn't have come out on top of. Ah, hell. He'd punch him later. Just not now.

Those two. What awful timing. Idiots.

His mind was whirring so much he felt suddenly ill.

Gilbert shook his head to clear it, and whispered, in disbelief, a dumb, "W-what?"

_Four._

Erzsébet took a step towards him, her brow creasing in what could either have been anger, disappointment, or, more likely, both. "Gilbert! You idiot," she hissed, and stomped her foot.

How had she found him here? And why? Didn't she understand?

_Three_.

"Come on! We have to get out of here before someone sees you! If they caught you—"

Why was she always so mad at him? He fazed her angry, fervent whispers into white noise. She yelled too much. Always had, almost as much as Roderich. Couldn't ever get away from either one of them.

_Two_.

"—in prison for the rest of your _life_!"

At least when Ludwig yelled at him it was for a good reason. Ludwig hadn't yelled, really, not really. Ludwig had usually just muttered at him when he was angry, and maybe once or twice, when he had been furious, Ludwig might have actually shrieked, but not yelled. With Ludwig's voice, it was usually all or nothing. Either gentle or terrifying. Missed that voice, either way.

Time seemed to pass so slowly.

Time.

Was she still talking? His head hurt. Nag, nag, nag. That's all she did. Time wasted.

Time? Oh. Shit.

With a terrible sinking in his gut, he _remembered_.

Panic. Fuckin' grenade on the step, sitting in silent danger. His eyes widened in horror, and with a wild shriek, he reached out and shoved Erzsébet backwards with all of his might, so hard that she almost fell backwards, caught only by Alfred.

They gawked at him in a moment of incomprehension.

And when he screeched, "Run!" in the most awful voice he could ever remember using, Alfred (reacting quickly for one that looked so damn dumb) grabbed Erzsébet by the hand and tried to yank her along as he broke into a sprint, as though the very gates of hell were opening up beneath him.

Alfred had heard his voice, that terror, and was reacting accordingly.

" _Gilbert_!"

Gilbert broke out of his stupor, and tried to follow.

_One_.

He made it only a meter before the explosion rocked the street, and as the intense flames bathed the steel doors of the _Stasi_ office, all three of them vanished in the smoke.

* * *

Silence.

A thick, mind-numbing silence. Like outer space.

How long had they lied there, vulnerable and wounded? Time felt lost.

His head hurt like hell. Wet, rough pavement beneath his palms.

Felt like years.

The taste of blood.

Alfred scrunched his eyes when he came to, head splitting open in agony and his body feeling more like lead. Spinning. With a pained groan, he tried to gather his strength as he heard himself moaning involuntarily, and his feet were kicking out a little of their own accord. Couldn't think. Couldn't really move. Stunned moments, and then somehow, he opened his eyes. He couldn't see at all. Blurs. Shapes. Dull colors. He reached up slowly with a shaking hand, and felt around on his face.

His goddamn glasses were gone.

Groping out, fingers hitting cold, wet pavement, he searched this way and that, and finally felt the unnerving crunch of frail glass and steel beneath his hand. Pulling the mangled glasses forward, he pushed himself off the cold street, perched his cracked glasses upon his nose, and watched for a stunned moment as blood dripped steadily onto the street beneath him, creating a small, crimson pool.

Surreal. ...where was he, again?

He fell back onto his knees and reached up, holding his forehead gingerly as his head burst into agony. His nose was bleeding. There was a faint screeching in his ears. Whooshing. He felt like he'd been hit by a train. Holding his head, he looked around through bleary eyes. Where was everyone? What had happened? Last the he clearly remembered was feeling terrified, for whatever reason.

The border.

Ludwig.

He looked behind, and when he saw Erzsébet's motionless form a mere yard away, the adrenaline woke him up like a bolt of lightning and he crawled over in a panic, reaching out and grabbing her shoulders, shaking her as gently as he could. The motion hurt him, probably more than it did her. Everything hurt. Hurt to move.

The panic cleared his mind, though. He remembered now, if vaguely.

Ludwig's huge fuckin' idiot of a brother. Dumbest man to ever walk the planet.

"Hey," he hissed, for fear of shouting, as he hovered above Erzsébet and felt his heart racing in horror. "Hey! Wake up! Oh, c'mon! Wake up, wake up, please wake up!"

She did, slowly, (oh, thank god, thank god!) and when she began to moan in pain, he looked around in distress.

Where was Gilbert? Stupid son of a bitch.

The bitter part of him hoped that Gilbert had gotten blown up, alright, just for putting other people in harm's way for his own stupid actions, but that thought was quickly cast aside. Ludwig. If anything happened to Gilbert, it would have been Ludwig that suffered. Ludwig was his best friend, his best friend. Woulda done anything for Ludwig, because Ludwig would have done anything for him. The only real friend he'd ever had. No one else could put up with him.

Ludwig was the only person that Alfred could sit there with and not feel like he was just being suffered.

For Ludwig.

Damn. Couldn't seem to think straight.

A fire was burning a short distance away, bright in the gloomy streets, and Alfred forced himself onto his feet, grabbing Erzsébet under her arms and hauling her as quickly as he could back into the shadows of an alley. This place was dangerous. Couldn't stay out in the open, not with that fire burning.

When he propped her up against a wall, he slapped her cheek smartly, and she hissed in air as she squinted open her eyes.

"Wake up, we gotta get outta here!"

After a moment of stillness, she finally became alert and aware of her surroundings, and before he could stop her she had cried loudly Gilbert's name. In the same moment, the marching footsteps came barging down the street. For their ruckus, her cry went unheard.

He reached out and pulled her back to his chest as she meant to walk out into the street, covering her mouth harshly with his scraped, bloody hand and scuttling back into the darkness. She didn't struggle.

Shouting.

They sat there in the dirty gloom, her back to his chest, staring with wide-eyed horror into the street. Running men passed. No one noticed them, tucked back in the darkness. The footsteps were farther away, and they finally dared themselves to peer out into the chaos.

A terrible, shrill alarm sounded above, ringing out into the still darkness as a red light suddenly came to life and began to twirl wildly around them, bathing them with light every two seconds. They crouched in the shadows of the alley, Alfred's hand still firmly cupping Erzsébet's mouth, and watched as the smoke slowly began to thin.

The doors of the office were gone.

Officers stood on either side of the building, observing the dying flames with interest as they muttered to each other. Two large men in un-decorated uniforms were retreating quickly inside with something in their arms, as though hauling an injured comrade to safety.

Even the hand suppressing her voice could not stifle Erzsébet's sudden sob of anguish, and Alfred saw why:

Gilbert was gone.

Someone looked into the shadows, and knowing their time was far gone, Alfred pulled her back into the alley and they stole away into the night. They couldn't stay. They had come too late. Hadn't been quick enough, smart enough, hadn't gotten there in time, had let stupid Gilbert slip right through their fingers, and suddenly, with an awful surge of despair, Alfred felt Ludwig slipping through his fingers, too.

Gilbert was _gone_.

This would break Ludwig's heart.

All Ludwig had ever wanted was Gilbert.


	4. Rising Sun

**Chapter 4**

**Rising Sun**

Awkward was barely a strong enough word.

The sun was just beginning to rise over the eastern horizon, but it did not bring with it a sense of relief, as it fought desperately to break through the dark storm clouds. A low mist hung drearily over the streets, the humidity was suffocating, and the two disheveled people towards the back were certainly as miserable as the weather.

They did not meet each others' eyes, as they stood there side by side, and their presence alone was enough to make everyone passing nearby feel considerably, well... _awkward_.

They looked as if they had been, for lack of a better expression, put through the wringer.

A man and a woman, both standing absolutely still, as though the slightest movement would bring both of them down. The woman was holding her head gingerly, her wet hair matted to her scalp as she squinted her eyes in what could have been an attempt to hold back tears. Her dress was torn, and mottled.

The man was in perhaps worse shape, the front of his ripped shirt drenched with dried and fresh blood. His glasses were scratched so badly that it would have been surprising if he could see anything at all. Above his eye was a deep gash that seemed poorly tended to, as it still oozed dark blood, and he swayed to and fro in an almost imperceptible manner; a doctor passing by would have suspected that his equilibrium had been thrown off by a blow to the head. Concussed.

Something—or some _one_ —had apparently beaten them down.

They smelled faintly of gunpowder.

They stood in line at the border, and didn't say a word. Every so often, the man reached up, and rubbed at his temple with a look of distress.

And distress, Alfred would have agreed, was an accurate description.

More like devastation, actually.

Clenching Erzsébet's hand tightly so that he wouldn't fall right over, Alfred stared firmly at the ground as they waited patiently for their turn. He couldn't bear to lift his head, lest he accidentally catch her gaze. Doing so might have made her burst into tears. Or him. Couldn't really tell which one of them felt more miserable. So pitiful. He kept on swaying, and she kept on pulling him back upright, and sometimes he wished she would just let him collapse. Had no strength left, for the first time in his life.

Had never felt this way, because he had never let anyone down before. Always kept his promises, always, always came through, and this feeling of utter failure was too much to stomach.

The taste of blood in his mouth.

They had spent the night hours wandering through the alleys to bide time until the border opened, and Erzsébet had tried to wipe the blood from his face, but they looked no better now than they had earlier. His vision was blurry. Was it because his glasses were so badly damaged, or was it because he was on the verge of tears?

He was so ashamed. Hadn't ever felt this awful. They had _had_ him. Gilbert had been _right there_ , in arm's reach, and yet still they had been unable to pull him to safety. They'd had him.

What a disaster.

Now, they stood with only each other, their swift retreat a shameful reminder of their miserable failure. And how was he going to sit down in front of Ludwig and tell him that he had been unable to stop Gilbert? Worse! How was he supposed to tell Ludwig that the _Stasi_ had his brother? That once the _Stasi_ had someone, they were quite often never seen again.

Ludwig had wanted Gilbert, for so long. So long. That was all. For it all, for everything, Ludwig had only wanted Gilbert. Even if Gilbert had never deserved it, Ludwig had loved him anyway. Had never understood it, not once. Sitting there all those nights, listening to Ludwig talk about growing up with that man, and Alfred had thought to himself, 'Who could ever love a man like that?'

Distressing. Alarming. A little concerning, Ludwig's devotion to a man that had obviously caused him nothing but grief.

Couldn't say it aloud, because it would have hurt Ludwig, but Alfred had always known that Gilbert didn't deserve Ludwig's love. Brother was the last thing Ludwig should have ever called Gilbert, but Alfred had smiled anyway, because it was so easy to see on Ludwig's face how much he truly did love the son of a bitch. Even if Alfred would never understand it, he accepted it. Alfred loved Ludwig, and so for that he didn't ever once open his mouth and say, 'Maybe you're a lot better off without him.'

Would be without him now.

Gone, forever.

He bowed his head, chest and head aching. It wasn't the damn concussion making him sick anymore. Felt so fuckin' sick, so sick, and it wasn't because he was thinking about what those men were doing to Gilbert this very second. He didn't give a damn about Gilbert, didn't care about him at all, felt absolutely nothing for him, but was devastated at his loss all the same.

Ludwig would never recover from _this_.

He'd sat there and watched Ludwig slip slowly away after that wall was finished, watched him drifting ever further, and hadn't been able to help. No matter how hard he had tried to keep Ludwig's head above the water, he hadn't been able to. Ludwig was always sinking down. This had been his chance, his chance, his chance to really help Ludwig, and he had blown it, and he wouldn't get another one.

Not ever.

"Next!"

They shuffled forward, wisely deciding to stay in line with the same guard that had let them through the day before. When they stepped up to him, he recognized them, and, with wide-eyes, he took Erzsébet's papers, although his attention was much focused elsewhere.

"Whoa-ho!" he crooned, unabashedly, raking them with unguarded curiosity as he held Erzsébet's passport in his hand. "What happened to _you_?"

Didn't seem concerned, either; amused, actually.

"What does it look like?" Alfred spat back, in an increasingly aggressive mood as the reality of everything started to sink in. "We got mugged."

They stared each other down, as Alfred fought off dizziness, and for an awful moment, he thought that the guard would disappear into his glass box and pick up the phone, calling a nearby GDR officer to tell him that he had suspicious persons, and they'd be joining Gilbert back across town.

But he only took Alfred's passport in his hands, and said, simply, "Oh."

It was certainly a believable circumstance, and it seemed to satisfy his curiosity about their speedy return to the West. It helped that Alfred was, after all, a dumb tourist. Dumb tourists got mugged every day. Otherwise, Alfred was very certain they would have been done in.

They suppressed their sighs of relief, and when the guard's hand went to raise the gate, he added, "Did you file a report?"

"Of course," he retorted, pushing his glasses up his nose. "Where do you think we were all night?"

"The ambassador will hear about this," Erzsébet added, quietly, as they pushed through. An empty, halfhearted threat, meant only to keep him from asking too many damn questions.

"Right, right. Yeah, sorry, I guess. Bon voyage."

The other side came, just like that. So easy for them. So hard for Gilbert and Ludwig.

They sped away, and parted ways in the street, Erzsébet going to the north and Alfred heading south. They both had to cover their bases.

Alfred was dreading his.

Ludwig was his best friend, and Alfred didn't want to tell him. Couldn't take the thought, couldn't stand it. Had never let anyone down in his life, and of course the first time he ever did, it would be the person he cared the most about. Ludwig was going to fall over when he knew, was gonna be _so_ devastated, so crushed, so upset, and Alfred didn't think that he would be able to handle seeing him like that.

Just wanted Ludwig to be happy.

His best friend.

* * *

Darkness.

His head was splitting open. A strange daze. Drifting. He couldn't think.

Someone was screaming in his ears, faintly, as though through a fog.

He felt his fingers twitching.

...where _was_ he?

His head lit up like fire. God, he had never felt such pain in his life. White-hot, and dots of colored light danced before his closed eyes. Pounding in his ears. Dizziness.

_We have to get out of here before—_

Something was dripping down onto his neck. His fingers were numb.

Drip, drip.

Moaning, Gilbert tried to roll his head to the side, but the pain stopped him short, and then, as he fought to come out of the clutches of unconsciousness, chest heavy and feeling exhausted, he heard something that made his skin crawl.

Voices.

He could hear _voices_ , faint and garbled as though they were coming to him through a tunnel, the words and tones strangely echoed. He had difficulty distinguishing the words, as his head threatened to explode. Was there someone standing right next to him? He couldn't tell. That was more unnerving, not knowing if someone was nearby or not.

Couldn't even open his eyes, he was so tired. Hadn't ever felt this bad. He couldn't think. Words floated in through the mess in his head.

Someone laughed.

"—would like...know."

"—you. Call...to...General."

The voices suddenly stopped, or maybe his ears had just given out. But no; he thought he heard the slamming of a door.

Silence.

The burning pain was dulling into a throb. He stayed still for a moment, trying to gather his thoughts.

He could feel the cold liquid still dripping onto his neck, and tried to raise his hand to cradle his forehead. He could not. With effort, he tried to open his eyes, and after a moment he finally succeeded, somehow or another. He couldn't help but hiss in pain as the dim light assaulted his eyes, even through the squinting. Oh, god. Was he dying? It felt like it. He'd always wondered what it felt like to die. This seemed pretty goddamn close. Not a pleasant sensation.

He tried to look again, and, slowly, the pain receded enough to think and his field of vision began to clear. Soon, he wished it had not.

And, really, he wished that he hadn't woken up at all.

The room was claustrophobically small, lit up in a sickly, iridescent light, and there were no windows. One door, made of steel. One bland color. He had assumed, in the depth of agony, that he had been laying, but now that he was coming back to consciousness, he realized that he was sitting in a cold chair.

He was restrained.

Hands and legs shackled to this monstrosity of an iron chair, he tried to struggle, as quietly as possibly, but it was no use. He couldn't move. A strap around his waist kept his torso firmly in place. Iron all around. There was no way he could escape such heavy cuffs. He was stuck.

The blood pounding in his ears only made it all the worse.

He felt far away, and yet here he was.

Pushing down the nausea, he tried to refocus on his surroundings, as his vision ever cleared, and he took in its appearance in more detail, looking for some clue as to where he was. A hanging lamp with a flickering fluorescent bulb hung above him, casting shadows that crept and fled. The walls were concrete blocks, painted off-white and matching perfectly the concrete floor. He saw dull, dark-red stains in the corner, and shuddered.

Dripping from above.

Ah, hell! Knew where he was, goddammit.

How had it come to this?

Leaning his head back wearily and closing his eyes, he tried to think. What was the last thing he remembered? Night. He remembered the night. What else? He remembered lurking through the dark, armed and ready. He remembered the _Stasi_ office looming up out of the shadows like a gateway to hell, and he remembered reaching the very first step. The feel of a light, metal pin in his hand.

What had went wrong? Something unspeakable nagged him.

What was _wrong_?

He started upright at a rush of memories and, horrified, cried to no one, "Erzsébet!"

Of _course_. Erzsébet had been there, and that big oaf Alfred. They had come at him, shouting at him with no clue of the silent danger, no idea that he had already taken the pin out of the grenade. Then there had been a flash, and a searing heat, and a shrill alarm, and then nothing at all.

Oh. Oh _no_.

And now, he was in a _Stasi_ stronghold, no doubt. He had been taken prisoner.

His nausea and fear turned to rage, rising up out of nowhere and burning him. Fury. Wished he coulda grabbed a hold of the both of them, because he was gonna _kill_ 'em, kill the both of 'em, if he could get his fuckin' hands on them.

Absolute wrath.

" _Goddammit_! You stupid motherfuckers," he shrieked aloud to himself, as he writhed pitifully in the chair, "Stupid! You both had to be so _stupid_! Everything would have been alright if you had just minded your own goddamn fuckin' _business_! If ya coulda just stayed away!"

No one there, but he screamed at them anyway. Didn't know what else to do. His voice cracked, and oh, Christ, he wanted nothing more than to burst into tears and just pitch forward and _die_. This was the worst possible outcome. The last thing he had ever wanted. He had just wanted to go home. He had wanted to see Ludwig.

It didn't once cross his mind to wonder if Alfred and Erzsébet were alive, if they had been caught, too, because Gilbert was a selfish son of a bitch and he only cared about himself and Ludwig. Never once did their well-being cross his mind. Not one time.

He had to get _out_ of here. Ludwig was waiting there still, just on the other side. Right across the wall. So fuckin' close, so close, and that was driving him crazy, he knew it was. Crazy. His hands were starting to shake. He had to get out.

Out.

_Out_.

He wrenched his wrists and ankles fiercely, digging the steel into his flesh hard enough to draw blood. He stifled a cry at the pain, biting his lip and gritting his teeth as he pulled harder. Didn't want anyone to hear him, and hell, he'd had worse.

Had to get out.

He pulled ever harder, but it was no use. The cuffs did not budge. Unmoving. Unyielding. Couldn't get free. Not like that, couldn't get out like that. Had to think of something else. Had to get his head together and think of a way to squirm out of that chair. Had an idea, but not one he was really looking forward to implementing.

No choice.

If he wanted to escape, _really_ wanted to escape, he would have to endure even worse pain. Because if he could just get one hand out, then maybe...

Ludwig was waiting, just over that wall. Had to get out. No matter what. If he could just get one hand free—

Inhaling several times to steady himself and reminding himself that Ludwig was waiting, he gritted his teeth, closed his eyes, clenched his toes, and then he wrenched his left hand back as fiercely as he could, screeching in agony he heard his thumb pop in protest.

" _Fuck_!"

Tears stung his eyes as he bucked upward, and he tried to slip his hand out. Not yet. Needed more.

"God _dammit_!"

Couldn't do much else than hiss curses aloud as he tried to gather up more bravery.

Ludwig. Had to think of Ludwig. Try to picture his face. Hadn't seen him in so long. Ludwig's eyes, pretty as they were. Wanted to see those eyes again.

He shook his head to clear it, hissed air through his teeth, and pulled again, this time so harshly that the metacarpal bone in his thumb snapped with a sickening crunch, and with a shriek, he yanked his hand free. Success had never felt so damn awful!

Gasping in air to settle himself, he leaned his head back, the water from above dripping down onto his face, trying to be still as he felt the nausea rising up.

"Shit, oh, oh shit," he moaned aloud, and after a moment of deep breathing, he pulled his mangled hand up to his chest, leaning forward in an attempt to cradle his battered appendage.

He felt dizzy. Distant.

He looked around when the nausea faded, making sure that no one had heard his cries, and tried to lower his busted left hand down to aid his right. He was so stupid—he was fuckin' left-handed. Why did he mangle his good hand, why couldn't he ever think right before he acted? Now he was gonna be fucked, alright, if he needed his hands again in his escape.

No time.

He had taken the clasp up, and was just starting to pull it when the heavy steel door began to creak open. The sound of it was loud over the silence in the room. Alarmed, he leaned back into the chair, dropping his hand into his lap.

Oh, fuck it all. What bad timing. He'd been so close.

_Oh_ —

What would they do when they saw how _close_ he had been to getting out?

Felt so sick, so sick, he was gonna puke, he knew it.

Chest heaving, he fell completely still when two men stepped inside, shutting the door behind them. Soft voices. Murmuring. They were speaking quietly amongst themselves in a language that he did not understand, but he had a suspicion, from the look of them; Russian. Were they Russians, visiting the GDR for a stay?

Reds. Hated them. Their fault that that damn wall had ever been built in the first place. Had been the GDR's idea, yeah, but the Russians had put that government there to begin with.

The men before him fell still, and silent, and then he heard steps on the floor. He didn't look up. Hoping to god they didn't notice his fuckin' hand. Hoping. Just wanted to get out of here.

One of them was suddenly directly in front of him, and reached out, grabbing his chin and forcing him to look up whether he wanted to or not, and he whispered, " _Vi govorite po-russki_?"

Gilbert found himself frozen under an unreadable, intense stare, and could only furrow his brows in distressed confusion. Didn't understand, but if he had it wouldn't have mattered because he wouldn't have been able to speak, not with those eyes pinning him. Those eyes boring into his were absolutely terrifying. Had never seen eyes like that.

Grey. As cold and pale as winter.

"You don't speak Russian, do you?" the other one suddenly asked in smooth if not accented German, from the corner, but Gilbert did not respond, caught in those horrible, pale pools of unnerving blankness.

" _Kak vas zovut_?"

"What's your name?"

He barely heard them. Couldn't break himself away from that gaze.

God, how could anyone have eyes like that? There was nothing _there_ , no hint of normal human emotions, and Gilbert would not have been surprised if this man suddenly declared that he had never been afraid of anything a day in his life. If he had never felt empathy, or mercy. Eyes like that. Hadn't ever seen eyes like that.

They said that the eyes were the window to the soul. Sometimes, Gilbert had wondered if that still held true if there was no soul to look at. He wondered what people saw when they looked into _his_ eyes. Maybe they felt the same sense of alarm he was feeling now. He'd never been 'normal'.

Like this man.

Made him scarier, somehow, trying to find comparisons.

The man studied him with scrutiny, his impeccable cap gleaming in the dull light, and Gilbert took note of how his features seemed to sharpen when he was focusing. Intimidating in every possible sense. Gilbert shuddered, and the man finally released his chin and took a step back to converse with his comrade. Free of the hypnotizing eyes, Gilbert was finally able to take them in in their entirety.

The one that spoke to him in German wasn't as instantly terrifying as his companion. Average height, a bit shorter than Gilbert at a guess, with brown hair and rather shapely eyes. Well-built for his height, though, soldier that he was. Broad shoulders, although he wasn't quite as big as Gilbert. Strong. Cold. Sneering. His gun gleamed at his waist. He might have been Gilbert's age. The heavily-lashed eyes would have been pretty if he weren't so damn scary, and he spoke his German with a strange accent that Gilbert had never heard. Fluent, certainly, and maybe no one would have guessed he wasn't a native speaker if he could have just stopped trilling his 'r's like that. A sharp, straight nose, like a raptor's beak. High brow. Rather bored, from the look of him. Condescending.

But the other...

That man. The scariest thing Gilbert had ever seen in his _life_ , that man. Just a glance, and anyone woulda run for cover. Taller than Gilbert, taller than Ludwig. Huge guy, fuckin' tank. One of the biggest men Gilbert had ever seen, very wide-chested and very strong. A little bit darker in complexion, if only for being weathered by the elements, dressed to the nines with a smooth, flawless (maybe gaudy) military uniform, he removed his hat and held it in his hand, watching Gilbert with a tilted head of what could have been curiosity. He was still speaking, and although his voice was soft, smooth and gentle, it was not comforting. It might have been better if he were angry and shouting; then, at least, maybe he would not have been so absolutely terrifying.

That strange calmness.

He was _overwhelming_ , for lack of a better word, in both his size and his radiating, suffocating presence. Four stars on his shoulder. Looked like he owned the world and knew it.

Gilbert feared him.

Oh god, _oh_ god, would he _ever_ see Ludwig again? Seemed so unlikely.

They conversed quietly amongst themselves, and then, suddenly, they noticed his hand, fucking figured, and the smaller one asked, a bit eagerly, "Did _you_ do that?"

Not so bored anymore.

Gilbert could only nod, dumbly, and then the frightening one stepped forward and knelt down before him on one knee, as a mother before her child. The air chilled. Locking eyes, a tranquil smile spread over his face, and he reached up, ruffling Gilbert's hair with a strange gentleness that was somehow worse than a blow. Gilbert sensed the calm before the storm.

"Brave, you," he whispered, in clumsy, broken German, and Gilbert shivered at both the strong accent, and the sleek texture of the gloved hand as his long fingers ran through his hair, and then trailed down his jaw, and then his neck, and then his shoulder, lower, and lower...

He suddenly lifted himself up, bringing his face so close to Gilbert's that he could feel the Russian's warm breath on his neck.

And then, taking Gilbert's wounded hand within his own, he leaned in further and whispered gently into his ear, while at the same time he clenched his fist as tightly as he could, grinding the shards of broken bone in Gilbert's hand into the tendon as much as he could.

Son of a—

Gilbert couldn't stifle his scream of pain at that, and, as the Russian snapped his already abused thumb back in a manner that was all business, he heard that whisper playing over and over in his head.

_Welcome to hell._


	5. Fear of the Dark

**Chapter 5**

**Fear of the Dark**

What was taking so long?

Something was wrong.

Pacing back and forth across the tile of his kitchen floor, Ludwig chewed mercilessly on his thumbnail, seeing but not comprehending his surroundings. He was out in space. He had heard nothing from Erzsébet, and Alfred wasn't back yet. He had not seen them in two days. Two long, miserable days. And god, he had gone out and waited near that old store front where he had stood so many times before. He had waited there as instructed, hands tucked into his pockets, watching the silent wall intently.

Gilbert had never shown up.

Two days had come and gone. He'd waited all night there at the wall, clenching his fingers in his hair and breathing through his mouth as the dawn broke, pacing back and forth just as he was now. No one had ever come.

Coming home that morning was the first time Ludwig had ever entered this flat feeling utterly defeated. So tired, so exhausted, so miserable. Hadn't eaten, hadn't slept, had done nothing for two days except panic and panic and panic and then when he wasn't panicking he was popping back the Valium so he wouldn't panic, and then he panicked when the Valium wore off and panicked when he had to take more.

Panic.

Was Gilbert safe? Gilbert was so brash and reckless. Gilbert didn't think before he acted. Never had, and always seemed to wind up on the bottom. That stupid man. Worse, it wasn't just Gilbert now, not just him, but others. If Gilbert went down this time, there was a good possibility that he would take Erzsébet and Alfred down with him.

_Oh_.

With a moan, Ludwig collapsed at the kitchen table, hands covering his mouth and staring over his fingers at the wall. With every passing second, his chest seemed to get heavier. His collar got tighter and tighter.

Time for the pills.

He was starting to rely on them. Was using them too much, far too much. Had never wanted to, never, and yet now his trembling hands uncapped the bottle and he put two back anyway, because he couldn't fuckin' breathe. Couldn't think. Couldn't focus. Couldn't settle. In the back of his mind, he wondered if he looked like Gilbert then, throwing back pills and swallowing with a wince. Wondered if somehow he was going to end up becoming Gilbert.

Once Gilbert had started popping pills, he'd never really been able to stop.

Couldn't _help_ it. Couldn't stand that tightening of his chest. Not being able to breathe.

Alfred. Where was Alfred?

Screwing the top back on the bottle, Ludwig had barely had enough time to finish swallowing them when there was a knock at the door. Panic and elation and horror. Jumping upright so fast that he knocked his chair backwards, he bolted forward, sprinting through the rooms and coming to a screeching halt in front of the door and ripping it open as his hope soared.

Oh, god. Had they brought him? He hadn't seen Gilbert's face in so _long_ —

His eyes focused, and his breath caught in his throat. What he saw there made his hope die, as his heart dropped into his stomach.

It wasn't Gilbert.

Alfred stood in the frame, arms loose at his sides and head bowed. He was disheveled and dirty and looked far beyond beaten, as a gash on his forehead dripped blood down on his collar. Ludwig shuddered at the sight. All that blood. Was all of it _his_? Alfred was covered in blood. His coat was soaked through on the shoulder, as the wound on his head ever dripped. His glasses were so mangled and shattered that Ludwig couldn't even believe Alfred had ever been able to find his way home in the first place.

The panic then was indescribable.

Alfred just stood there, swaying back and forth, and then he looked up at Ludwig from behind his busted glasses, opened his mouth, and lost his voice. Was Alfred _crying_? ...no. Almost, though. Couldn't speak, for the threat of tears. Had never once seen Alfred look so utterly helpless.

Wanted to faint, suddenly. Terror.

Alfred just stood there. He didn't speak.

Ludwig finally came out of his stupor with an inhale.

"Oh, god," Ludwig finally breathed, when his voice returned, and he reached out, snatching a handful of Alfred's coat and pulling him inside as quickly as possible, slamming the door behind. Panic led his actions then, that awful, familiar panic, and Ludwig was tripping over his own feet as he dragged Alfred to the couch and pushed him down. As much as Alfred had been frantic and blubbering the first time Ludwig had had a panic attack, so too was Ludwig then, when he fell to his knees before Alfred and ran hands over him in terror.

Didn't know what to _do_ —

In the middle of Ludwig's pitiful panicking, Alfred suddenly reached out, grabbed his wrists, and forced him still. A long stare, as much as was possible behind those shattered glasses, and then Alfred finally found his voice.

"It's nothin'," Alfred murmured, voice low and rumbling. "Just a scratch."

A scratch? A scratch! A fuckin' scratch? Ha. Typical Alfred. Ludwig was so flabbergasted and so taken aback by the words that he fell completely still there, limp and dazed and staring up at Alfred with horror. Alfred was quick to look away, and finally released Ludwig's wrists. Ludwig succeeded only in falling back onto the floor, weight held up by his palms as he stared breathlessly at Alfred.

Couldn't think. His brain just couldn't keep up.

Alfred stared off into nothing, as still as a statue, and spoke no more. Took Ludwig a long, long time to finally find his own voice.

"Where's Erzsébet?"

If anything had happened to her, he woulda died. If she weren't coming back. His mother, always had been, she had picked him right up off the street with Roderich and had taken him home and called him 'son'. It would be his fault, if anything had happened to her, and he wouldn't have ever been able to forgive himself for that, couldn't have lived with himself.

A despondent whisper.

"She's fine. She's with Roderich."

Oh, god! Incredible words.

There was a horrendous silence, and with effort, Ludwig braced himself and asked at last, in a voice so soft it was barely audible, "And Gilbert? Where's my brother?"

Alfred inhaled, hung his head, and burst into tears.

And Ludwig could have died.

Faint.

Didn't remember much after that, because his chest clenched and air was gone and everything went black, he had suddenly collapsed.

* * *

How many years had it been?

The only sound that kept him company was the steady dripping of crimson and water onto the concrete below.

Drip.

How long? '60 had been the last _._ Ludwig had smiled then.

His head hurt.

Blearily, Gilbert opened his eyes, and rolled his head to the side, observing his new lodgings. That iron chair had proved too close to failure (his own mistake, he knew) so, at the behest of that bored man that had accompanied the General, they had ripped him out of it and thrown him into a holding cell, where the iron bars were impassable, no matter how many bones he was willing to break. The cot where he rested was hardly even that; just a slab of cold, unyielding concrete.

The chain on his ankle kept him from wandering even a few feet, but it was pointless; he had no desire to move. They had tormented him briefly, the _Stasi_ , once the General had stepped out for the evening, but he had barely been conscious then. He couldn't even remember now exactly what they had done. Maybe that was for the best.

He knew only that he was sore, and bleeding. But they had left soon in boredom when he refused to cry out, and no one had come back the rest of the night. Didn't know what they wanted, anyway. Must have thought he was one of the students. Wanted information, but he didn't have much to give. He was just a stupid man with no self-control.

Even though there were no windows, he sensed that it was early morning now.

The air was cold.

The void of complete silence in this cold building was almost as unnerving as the emotionless void of the Russian General's eyes.

He wanted to go _home_.

He couldn't stand it here, cramped and captive. He had never been an indoor person, and this was pushing his psyche to its breaking point. This silence. To keep himself from slipping into total insanity, he thought back on cherished memories. Memories, after all, were all he would ever have of Ludwig again.

Five years.

It had been five years since he had held Ludwig's hand. Five missed birthdays. Five missed summers. Five missed Christmases. In a little under three months, he realized with a lurch of regret and longing, and it would be a sixth lonely Christmas. For Ludwig, at any rate. He much doubted if he would still be around in three months.

Not here.

Why hadn't he made the Christmas of 1960 really count? They spent Christmas at Roderich's home every year, because Ludwig loved Roderich and Roderich's home was nice and cozy. Gilbert hated it. As soon as the eve of the 24th fell and the sun was gone, he had gone out into the city, crawling in and out of bars and nightclubs until he had lost all sense of time and his feet were sore, and he had come back the next morning hung-over from too much alcohol and still high. And as soon as he came through the door, what had he done? He had staggered straight past Ludwig and passed out onto the bed, and Ludwig had spent Christmas day sitting silently in the living room with Roderich and Erzsébet.

He had never even said 'sorry'. He had never sat Ludwig down and tried to explain to him that it wasn't that he didn't want to spend time with him, it was just that he couldn't _bear_ to be inside of Roderich's house.

It hadn't been Ludwig's fault.

It was strange, how he had wasted that day so easily years ago, and now he would go to the ends of the earth and back just to have a single moment with Ludwig. Just to see his face. Closing his eyes, he tried his hardest to remember the feel of Ludwig's smooth hand within his own. He couldn't.

Raising his hand up to his forehead, he gave a rough, deep laugh that echoed off the walls.

Welcome to hell.

Right.

It was true already, and, as though on cue, the second that the words had passed through his head, the steel doors began to slowly creak open. Steadying himself, he raised himself up at the waist, resting his elbows between his knees. Every movement was agony, but even the throbbing, burning pain in his mangled hand could not compare to the pangs of anxiety.

The not knowing of what was coming was worse than anything.

And then that soft, gentle voice filled the silence, and he prepared himself for another day of torment.

It was only dawn.

* * *

"Please reconsider."

The office was colder than usual, but Ludwig was not bothered by it. Slouched in his chair, hands resting despondently in his lap as Roderich leaned over his desk with a look of alarm, he shook his head.

Reconsider? He couldn't.

"But, Ludwig—"

"I've already made up my mind."

His voice was mechanical, automatic. Not his own. So lost up in his head, perhaps, that his brain had just shifted over into autopilot.

Raising his head, he caught Roderich's frightened eyes, wide behind his glasses, and shrugged a shoulder nonchalantly.

"Hey," he muttered, "What else do I have to lose? And to think I put Erzsébet in such danger, when I should have gone myself all along."

It was true, and he would never shake off the shame of letting his almost-mother go in his stead. She could have been killed, and how then would this conversation in Roderich's office be going?

"Erzsébet is _fine_ ," Roderich said slowly, trying to keep his voice steady as he struggled to regain control of the situation. "Alfred is fine. _You're_ fine. And there are always other options—"

"I'm going, no matter what you say. But it will be easier if you help me. I don't want to set off in the dark."

Roderich fell back into his chair, and his stance slumped in defeat.

"And that's that?"

"That's that."

They locked eyes, and now, even the unmovable, impassive Roderich was squirming in his seat. Reaching up and running a hand through his immaculately styled hair, he looked down and shook his head. "How can I help you do this," he whispered miserably, faltering under Ludwig's gaze, "when I've watched you grow up? I've spent so many years protecting you. For what? To cast you out now amongst the wolves? I couldn't... I can't. You're my son. How can I let you go?"

"Please. I need you."

His father. The only one he had ever known.

"How can you ask so much of me?"

It _was_ too much, far too much, and Roderich suddenly stood upright, slamming his fist on his desk emphatically.

Ludwig didn't flinch. Couldn't—too numb and dazed.

" _No_! I _won't_! He's gone! Gilbert is _gone_! We tried and we failed and there's nothing we can do to fix it! And now you're saying you want to throw everything away and go after him? Are you crazy? Have you lost your mind? He's probably already dead, and if he isn't, then so what? What can _you_ do about it? What are you really gonna do about it? You really think you can just bust in there and break him out? You've lost your _mind_! It's not your fault, it's not, and you don't have to try to make up for it! What's the sense, in losing both of you? What's the point? What good can come of it? One was enough. I don't want you to go, too. It's not your fault—"

Roderich trailed off, and even as his heart began to pound in guilt from Roderich's sincerity, Ludwig never looked away.

"I'm still going."

Roderich spat a curse, hissed air through his teeth, lowered his head, and stared dejectedly at his feet, eyes squinted and brow scrunched. A shake of his head, and Roderich lifted his hands up to cover his face and stifle his scream of frustration.

A low, muffled whisper.

"You always want to fix his mistakes. Always. You always did. You always want to try and make sense of the things he does. You can't, Ludwig. You can't help him this time. No one can. You don't have to try so _hard_."

That awful rush of guilt.

Gilbert was stupid and crazy, irresponsible and selfish, yeah, but Ludwig had always known that, always, and somehow, in some way, Ludwig was still very convinced that this entire situation was his fault because he just hadn't tried hard enough to keep Gilbert's head up. Had been sinking so deeply in his own misery that he hadn't been giving enough effort to call Gilbert and try to support him.

His fault.

One way or another.

"I could..."

Some part of Ludwig would have loved to just stay put, and he could pretend that Roderich and Erzsébet were his parents and that Alfred was his brother instead, and that everything was right in the world. Gilbert had never been anything but trouble. God knew that Alfred would have made a hell of a better brother than Gilbert ever could, and he would have a good life surrounded by people that loved him and were normal.

Normal.

Hardly—they had never been normal. Ludwig wasn't normal, and he didn't know if he had been born that way or if Gilbert had made him that way, but he loved Gilbert, all the way and no matter what, and wouldn't leave him over there to die. He was better off here without Gilbert, he knew that, and he also knew that he just didn't care.

Couldn't ever have explained it in words, no matter how many years he sat there thinking, and he knew that no one else had ever understood, and he got that, he really did, because he didn't understand either. Gilbert's draw, Gilbert's magnet, Gilbert's pull—Ludwig had never been able to escape it, and just went along with it as he always did.

_I'll never leave you! We'll always be together._

"I could just leave him," Ludwig began, pulling himself to his feet to match Roderich, "if I tried hard enough, I know I could. I could leave him there. I could— But would it be worth it, to throw him away? He screws up everything, and he doesn't listen, and he's stupid and stubborn and loud, and I know you _hate_ him, and I do too, really, but... He's still my brother. I have to go." He tried to smile when Roderich's hands clenched. "You're my family. I'd do it for _you_. And I know you'd do it for me. So let me go."

Roderich would have done it for him, with no question, and so maybe that was the only thing Ludwig could think of to say that would have made Roderich understand how Ludwig felt.

A heavy silence settled above them, and for a moment, Ludwig thought that his words had fallen on deaf ears, and that he would have to go on alone, groping blindly in the darkness, with no one to turn to.

Roderich just stared at him, as if the world were ending. For an awful moment, Ludwig even thought that Roderich looked as if he were about to cry.

But then, inhaling a great breath to gather himself, Roderich suddenly reached out and tossed the phone off the hook, and then, pulling on a mask of complete indifference, he murmured, "Up north. There's a tunnel."

Roderich was the smartest, bravest man Ludwig knew, and nothing could have ever shaken him, not a thing. Ludwig had always wanted to be like that. His idol. Had spent his entire life wanting to be Roderich, to be like that, and now suddenly he was throwing it all away for a man that was the opposite of everything he had ever loved in Roderich.

Ludwig leaned forward, and hung on every word.

Roderich's hands clasped around his own as he muttered away, and Ludwig squeezed them as tightly as he could, feeling him and remembering him. He might not have ever seen Roderich again. Roderich had saved his life once. Roderich had done everything for him. Roderich had been there, when Gilbert had not. Roderich was sane, rational, devoted, thoughtful, responsible; everything Gilbert was not.

And yet...

He felt sick.

Roderich was important to him. Roderich was like a father. But Gilbert was everything. He'd do anything for Gilbert. Anything, and he didn't know _why_. Didn't know why, because Gilbert had caused him nothing but grief, had been nothing but trouble, and so Ludwig didn't know why he loved him so much.

Didn't make sense, but he would go all the same.

Gilbert was waiting.

* * *

"Is this right?"

Everything was dark.

Once to the right. Twice to the left. Right. Straight. There were so many twists in this path.

The air was stale.

"Ludwig, I don't know about this."

_Left._

" _Please_ — Let's just go back. Ludwig?"

_Down._

"Are you listening?"

_A corridor._

"Ludwig!"

Strong hands reached out and grabbed his shoulders, and Ludwig came crashing back into reality with a lurch of his stomach. Alfred was before him, wide-eyed and breathless, a look of fear upon his face, shaking him for all he was worth.

"Hey! You listenin'? We should go back! Now. Don't do this. You don't have to do this."

"I remember," Ludwig whispered, more to himself, and looked around. "I think I can remember."

He could remember. This awful place.

The East had been for so many years the source of everyone's nightmares, but in this labyrinth of alleys and stairways and doors that led to nowhere, they were coming to realize that the West could be just as unforgiving. But then, he thought with a shudder, Berlin was all just one city, wasn't it? These frightening crevasses had existed long before the Eastern Bloc. Berlin had been whole, once.

Roderich and Gilbert knew this city like the back of their hands. Ludwig and Alfred did not, and they were struggling with Roderich's hastily and messily scribbled directions, struggling to see for the dim light of the moon. Scrambling through the back alleys, some so narrow that Alfred's wide shoulders forced him to scoot along sideways, they had passed beggars and soldiers and suspicious men that had an air of foreboding, all under the cover of darkness.

They could bring no lights, for fear of attracting unwanted attention.

But, by either dumb luck or perseverance, they had come to their destination : an old, abandoned hospital from the long-dissolved empire, that looked on the verge of downfall, with a collapsed ceiling and dead trees at the gate. The front doors were padlocked shut, but they slunk in easily through a shattered window.

The hallways turned out to be the worst part, all the same color and the same length, with no signs. So many doors. Everything had fallen into ruin. Dead vines crept along the walls.

Ludwig tried to remember the turns as best he could, just in case. Just in case he would come back.

The night was cloudy.

And now, they stood in the dark corridor, lit up with only the faintest traces of moonlight, staring at the gate ahead that would soon part them. The stillness of the hall was disturbing. Shouldn't there have at least been the scuffling of debris in the light breeze, or the scurrying of rats?

Nothing.

"Let's go."

Ludwig took a step forward, but Alfred lingered back, and he could hear him shuffling back and forth anxiously, the wheels practically grinding in his head. Ignoring him (already knowing what he longed to say) Ludwig knelt down, and, after a minute with a bobby pin, removed the unlocked chain from the front of the gate.

The chain clattered as it fell to the floor.

This thin metal mesh was the only thing that stood between them, and the hospital's death tunnel. Once the last mile for the victims of infectious diseases, it had been usurped, carved out, and elongated by now-gone rebel groups. No one used it anymore, but the _Stasi_ hadn't found it yet. Supposedly. It was hidden behind an inconspicuous door. There were no lights inside. Anyone foolhardy enough to enter the death tunnel had to walk over two kilometers underground in the pitch-black, feeling their way along the dirt wall, crouching to avoid hitting their head, and hope above all that they did not slip into one of the numerous, growing sink-holes, breaking their ankle, or maybe worse.

And when the other end emerged, who knew if it had been sealed up?

"Ludwig."

Standing, Ludwig looked over his shoulder, and whispered, affectionately, "Scared?"

"No," Alfred retorted, and leapt forward, reaching down and grabbing the gate in his hands. "I'm not!"

His halfhearted smile was hidden by the dark. Oh, Alfred. If he died in this venture, one great regret would be that he hadn't spent more time with Alfred. The only friend he had ever had. So many nights sitting there and talking about the future; Alfred had said that one day they would be eighty and still drinking together on the couch, either in Germany or America, and Ludwig had believed him.

Still wanted to.

"I'm just nervous, is all," Alfred murmured, as he lifted the metal as quietly as he could for the way it screeched, ushering Ludwig through before following himself. "I mean, I'm just worried about you, going over there all alone." There was no response, and Alfred took Ludwig's arm in a vice grip. "Let me come with you."

Ludwig had known that this was coming. Knew it, because he had spent the past twelve hours shooting Alfred down every five minutes. Nothing new by then, those words. At least Alfred was asking now. Earlier, he had shaken the life out of Ludwig, very angrily, and had sworn that Ludwig wasn't going anywhere at all without him.

Wasn't sure still how he had gotten out of it.

"No," was the immediate reply, and Alfred hung his head.

"Don't you trust me?"

"With my life."

"So why don't you want me to come?"

Ludwig smiled, snorted, and turned to glance over at Alfred, who had that look of hardened seriousness that Ludwig loved. Looked like everything then that Ludwig could have imagined an American would, from all those Hollywood movies. Looked just like those confident actors, looked so sure and so bold, so ready for danger, and Ludwig always thought that Alfred could do anything.

Not this time.

Trusted Alfred, so much, loved him, adored him, cared so much about that man, and that was why Alfred couldn't come.

"Because," Ludwig finally said. "You're my best friend. I can't save him if you come, because I— If it came to it, I'd leave him behind, so that you would get out. I'd save you before him. That's why you can't go."

Alfred was innocent, had nothing to do with this at all, and Ludwig would have remembered that and would have seen Alfred safe before Gilbert, and that was entirely counterproductive. Alfred would be too great a distraction.

Alfred stepped forward, reached out, as if to grab Ludwig, but fell short at the last second.

"Can't we just— Please. I don't want you to go."

Alfred's voice was thick. Trembling. _Oh_ —couldn't stand it. Couldn't, couldn't take it, couldn't stand seeing Alfred like that, his courage was already hanging by a thread, and if Alfred started crying Ludwig might have folded.

"Thank you," Ludwig said, abruptly, and took a meaningful step forward.

Alfred gave a strange, strangled inhale.

How had it ever come to this?

"Listen," Ludwig suddenly whispered, as an afterthought, "If I don't come back—"

He wanted to say, 'I want you to know that you're the best friend I ever had, and I don't know why, but damn if I didn't love you.'

Didn't get his chance.

"Don't even," Alfred barked, voice suddenly strong again, interrupting him rudely and fiercely, "Don't even try it! Asshole. You're not good at sayin' things like that, and I hate listening to bullshit anyway. We both know you don't have a damn good thing to say about me! So. ...I know you'll come back. I'll be here when you do. Even if it's without him. You'll come back. I'll be waiting."

Alfred. They should have had more time together.

Couldn't breathe, and his own voice was thick and trembling then when he spoke.

"Thank you, Alfred."

"Lutz. I'll see ya around."

"Yeah. See you."

A sudden slam of the lowering grate told him he had been shut in.

There was no turning back. The former world was left behind.

Reaching out with a trembling hand, he opened the door, and plunged into darkness.


	6. The Deal

**Chapter 6**

**The Deal**

He hadn't slept in three days.

Three days; who had heard of such a thing?

He hadn't even eaten, and his only source of water had been the now empty bottle clenched in his clammy hand. Leaning against the wall for support, Ludwig shook his head to clear it, and refocused on the _Stasi_ building before him with bleary eyes. He had stood here for three damn days, never looking away, because he had to be absolutely sure that everything he saw was routine, and not just random. Killed every bit of him and his senses, standing there on end like that, trying to so hard not to doze off right there standing up.

His head was killing him.

It would have been impossible to get anything useful from the unmoving, daunting front half of the building, which was still under repair anyway, so he had scoped out the back, finding a dark, empty alley from which to observe, keeping well out of the sight of passersby. This building. The gateway to the underworld. For the way he felt, the street between the building and where he stood may as well have been the river Styx.

And he didn't have any damn coins.

So he stood, and watched, knowing he'd have to eventually swim.

Even here, there were routines.

Every evening, at the stroke of eight, the uniformed guards that kept an eye on things slunk out the back door to smoke, and they leaned against a fence as they did so, giggling to themselves as they watched the passing of girls across the street. Conveniently, eight was the hour that the nearby nursing classes ended, and Ludwig seriously doubted that it was a coincidence. They left the door open behind them, and stayed out for exactly ten minutes.

The hall inside was half-obscured by the door, but he did not ever see anyone walking inside of it.

It was like clockwork, and even though it was not the simple break he had hoped for, he realized that if he wanted results, he would have to do something stupid and drastic. Or maybe it was just his sleep-deprived brain convincing him that he had a chance. It had to be, because he could barely stand up, and his head hurt _so_ badly, and yet he was certain that he could dart past the unsuspecting guards and waltz right inside of the _Stasi_ stronghold.

And then what?

He would have to wing it, and pray that the first door he opened just happened to lead to Gilbert. It was ridiculous, of course, and he knew that he was walking into a death trap. A suicide mission. What else could he do? It wasn't like he could step up to the front door and knock and say, 'hey, you seem to have my brother. Could I borrow him for a minute?'

Desperate times called for desperate measures.

His main concern now was that the effects of sleep deprivation had significantly reduced his agility and rationality, and even _if_ he found Gilbert, would he be thinking clearly enough to free him and drag him out again? He had made it through that hellish tunnel. Hours and hours crouching and feeling through dirt and spider-webs and rancid water. He could make it down a hallway.

...couldn't he?

He felt sick.

Turning his weary head up to the heavens, he saw that the sun was already long gone beneath the horizon, the moon high in the clear sky. The streetlamps were bright, but he stayed out of their light, looming in the shadows.

It was only five minutes until eight. Five minutes before the moment of truth. Five minutes before insanity. Five minutes before he would either save Gilbert or doom them both.

He longed to close his eyes and imagine how it would be if he succeeded, the look on stupid Gilbert's face, but he feared that doing so would make him fall asleep, and then he would miss his chance. He couldn't wait another day, just couldn't, wouldn't make it. His anxiety was already far too great, and he was certain that his mind could not stand another hour without sleep, let alone another day.

This stress.

One the eve of the day that he and Alfred had set off into the streets, he had paused in the kitchen to look back at the bottle of Valium sitting there on the counter. Contemplating. But he had been over-confident. He had left it there. Didn't want to dull himself, didn't want to dilute his senses. Needed very bit of himself, every bit of clarity for this mission.

Oh, but damn, what if...

What if Gilbert was already dead?

He couldn't bear the thought, and forced himself to believe otherwise. Gilbert, street-smart and tough and stubborn, would not go down so easily. It would take more than this to get rid of Gilbert. That stupid, arrogant man. Gilbert was invincible, the miserable jerk, always had been so on top of the world he had created in his head. Gilbert couldn't die.

The street was quiet and still, the shop lights warm behind their glass, and then, with a sudden burst of vibrancy, the clock struck the hour and the streets came alive with escaping students, laughing and ready to get home to their families. They swarmed past, the men grouping to catch up, the girls gaggling together to gossip, books in their hands.

Normal kids.

With a pang of longing, he recalled the days he'd stood there in front of the university and just stared. They didn't know how lucky their normalcy was. His normal life, whatever he had, had come to an abrupt halt, and he had grown up far too soon.

The girls walked by, failing to see him in the shadows, and his heart began to race terribly when the back door to the _Stasi_ office pushed open and the skirt-chasing guards fell into their lookout posts, their backs obliviously to the door.

Ludwig stood up straight and took a great breath.

He'd have to swim fast to get across this great river. Hades was within.

So was Gilbert.

Terror.

He ran.

Silence is golden.

They had taught him that in school, anyway, back when he was a child and still had his parents. Granted, Gilbert had never cared much for the silence, always filling the void with dumb jokes and filler and laughter. That was probably why they had ever told him that in the first place, to get him to shut the hell up. Never did. He was a grandstander by all rights, and he swore that there would never be a dull moment when he was around.

Silence had been his worst enemy.

But now, locked in solitude, he had no one to talk to, and he realized he was standing on the crumbling edge of sanity's cliff.

Ah, hell. Who was he kidding? He'd always been crazy. The doctors had told him when he was twenty (right after he had spent a night in jail for attempted arson and battery, after the parents of a classmate of Ludwig had refused to discipline their child when the little brat had stolen Ludwig's allowance, and Gilbert had taken matters into his _own_ hands) that he had something that they called 'borderline affective disorder'.

Whatever the hell that was.

They told him that that was the reason he was so emotionally and physically volatile, and the other side effects would explain why he had such fierce mood swings, as well as his obsessively possessive relationship with his brother, all of that bullshit they had tried to sell him. What, then, he had wondered, he was so jealous of people being around Ludwig because there was something wrong up in his head?

Ha. Stupid. Ludwig had been his, still was, always would be, and that was that.

'Whatever', he had said, shoving away the offered medication, and had never gone back. Ludwig had begged him and begged him to go back, and he hadn't listened. Maybe he should have. He felt crazier now than he ever had.

Didn't understand what the big deal was; Ludwig was _his_ , that was all.

Raising a weary, bloody hand to his forehead, he closed his eyes to fight off the tears that threatened to come. Felt like he was suffocating.

_So_ stupid. Why couldn't he have just been patient? In time, other escape routes would surely have presented themselves, and he could have simply walked across the fence into Ludwig's waiting arms.

If he could have just _waited_ , like Ludwig could. He was always so impatient, and foolish, and the urge to be greeted like a rebel hero had been too much. A fantastical ego mixed with extreme insecurity had been his problem, and he had longed to not only escape, but to do so under the admiring stares of those he loved. Why else would he have devised such an elaborately aggressive plan?

Had wanted Ludwig to be awed by him, and more than that he had wanted to show Roderich up.

He could have found another way had he looked. He deserved everything he was getting. Ludwig would be better off.

Falling limp and still on the concrete slab, he slowed his breathing, closed his eyes, and wondered if his body was broken enough to just give out on its own. Ludwig would miss him, true, but only for a while.

The hour was late. He could just go to sleep.

_Brother._

He'd break his promise, but Ludwig would forgive him. Always did, every single time. Ludwig was a gentle soul, who couldn't hold a grudge. That dumb kid. Ludwig had deserved better.

The sudden, intrusive creak of the heavy steel door stirred him back to life, and he flipped over lethargically onto his side, hoping against hope that they would just leave him alone if they thought he was sleeping. He couldn't take anymore. He just wanted to sleep. Was that so much?

There was a silence, and then a soft, ghostly whisper filled the room, so thin and frail that it could possibly have just been a figment of his imagination.

"Gilbert? _Oh_! Is that you?"

He stiffened, and squinted his eyes.

Was that—was that _Ludwig's_ voice? It couldn't be. Great. He was hearing shit now. What a cruel joke.

" _Gilbert_? Oh, please, _please_..."

Damn. It sounded so real.

And then he heard soft footsteps behind him, and it took a moment for his tormented mind to comprehend that he was not in this room alone.

"Gilbert? Oh, please, don't be... Please, Gilbert."

The lethargy was steadily fading. Coming back from the brink.

Ludwig?

The voice, _that_ voice, came again, and Gilbert came crashing back to himself with a surge of adrenaline, starting upright so fast that his head swam with dizziness. Wrenching around, he felt a rise of unspeakable horror within him when he saw that Ludwig, looking pale and exhausted and frightened, had come into the room and shut the door behind him.

Ludwig. It was really Ludwig. _Why?_

"It _is_ you! Oh! Gilbert! I thought you were _dead_!"

He couldn't even speak for terror, and only stared with wide eyes as Ludwig came up to the cell, and fell onto his knees before him, gripping the iron bars in either hand, and the look on his face was so emotional that Gilbert could think of no words to describe it. On the brink of dissolving into complete hysteria. Damn near bawling. Had never seen that look on Ludwig's face.

Maybe it was the look of someone who had accidentally walked into paradise after escaping from hell.

"Gilbert?"

This was no dream. Ludwig was here.

Here.

Oh, god. Oh, he'd forgotten how fuckin' _beautiful_ Ludwig was—

Coming out of his stupor, Gilbert shrieked in ecstasy, it hurt his throat like hell but he did it anyway, and he fell from the concrete cot and staggered forward, as far as the ankle cuff would allow him, reaching out desperately. He couldn't get close enough, and he laid on his stomach, stretching out as far as he could, the tips of fingers finally brushing the bars. Ludwig plunged his arms through and took his hand within his own, and, for a moment, Gilbert closed his eyes and thought that he had died and gone to heaven.

He remembered, now, how Ludwig's hands felt, and, man, were they everything.

Together.

And he would have given anything, as he pressed his brother's smooth, albeit dirty, palms against his chafed lips, to be able to stay like this, wanted and loved. Would have given anything to be with Ludwig again.

"I missed you so much," Ludwig gasped, and his voice was heavy with the effort of composing himself.

Lifting his head, he looked into Ludwig's eyes. Those eyes. Everything he had ever wanted had always been in Ludwig's eyes. Sky-blue, intelligent and gentle, cool and sharp and yet so kind, exactly as he remembered them. The dark circles underneath were new, but sleep would fix that.

Those eyes.

Everything was going to be alright now. Ludwig was here. They were together again. Always would be. He had promised. Had never loved anything the way he loved Ludwig.

...say, did Ludwig speak Russian?

They were together, like he had promised _so_ many times they always would be, so why was his mind screaming at him so urgently to wake up, before it was too late? Why couldn't he just stay with him?

Just a little longer.

_Welcome to hell._

The words rang in his ears with a sudden relentless ferocity, and the alarm that had been fighting to break through his muddled mind finally roared to life. Ludwig had to leave.

Now.

With a gasp so great that it hurt his ribs, Gilbert pulled himself onto his knees and thrust Ludwig's hands back, eyes wide and chest aching. Ludwig looked startled. Dazed. Honestly, Gilbert would have perfectly believed him if Ludwig had suddenly said that he didn't know where the hell he even was or why or how he had ever gotten here.

" _Get out_!" Gilbert shrieked, furiously, and Ludwig fell back at his wrath, as he often did when his big brother was going a little crazy. But this time was different. Ludwig didn't understand what _danger_ lay in wait. " _Get out_! You have to get out of here! Why did you _come here_? _How could you have come here_? _Why_?"

Wrath. So angry. Absolutely enraged that this stupid kid had been so idiotic as to even think about crossing that fuckin' wall.

So mad.

"I had to—"

" _GET OUT_!"

Ludwig didn't leave, the stubborn bastard, and instead crawled forward, hands reclaiming the iron bars. His look was hurt, and confused. Exhausted, utterly exhausted. "No, Gilbert, I won't leave you here," he whispered, and Gilbert opened his mouth to scream at him some more, threaten him even, and if he could have reached him he might have slapped him, but his strained voice died in his throat when a movement in the background caught his eye.

He looked up instinctively, and when the door behind began to push open, he was so frozen in horror that he couldn't even warn Ludwig.

Oh, no. No, no, no. Oh, _no_ , what had dumb Ludwig gotten himself into? Idiot. Big, blond idiot. Dumbest damn kid that had ever walked the earth. Stupidest son of a bitch alive, right after Gilbert.

Ludwig saw his change in demeanor, and furrowed his brow, leaning in with worry as he gripped the bars ever tighter.

"Gilbert? Please..."

There was a short pause, as Gilbert tried to speak, or move, or even just mouth the words, and then a different, drawling voice suddenly came over the silence.

"Gilbert, huh? So, that's his name."

Crushing silence. Everything went still.

Before him, Ludwig jumped so hard that it looked liked he had been shocked, and when he realized what was happening, the defeated look he sent Gilbert was heart-breaking; complete and utter hopelessness. He had been caught, and he knew it, and for it, Gilbert coulda _died_ , just at that look on his face. The look of absolute despair.

Behind them, arms crossed above his chest as he leaned against the doorframe, stood the sharp man that had been acting as translator. Gilbert now knew from chatter that he was actually a lieutenant, and if _he_ was here...

That general could not be far behind.

The thought of his dumb little brother and the wolfish general in the same room together made his head spin, made him nauseous, terrified him in every sense. Falling backwards and covering his eyes with his hands, Gilbert could not bear to watch, coward that he was, and moaned his despair. Oh, god, what were they going to do now? Why had Ludwig even come here?

Ludwig's face had crumpled like paper, and Gilbert could only part his fingers and peer out, to see that Ludwig was so immobile then because he was struggling to keep himself from bursting into tears.

"Who are _you_?" asked the Lieutenant, but Ludwig stayed still and quiet, never taking his eyes from Gilbert's trembling form, refusing to acknowledge the man behind. "How did you get in here?"

Took a while for Ludwig to gather himself, and when he did, he opened his eyes, pursed his lips, and then gave a sigh of complete defeat.

His voice was barely audible when he spoke again.

"Gilbert," Ludwig finally whispered, careless of the unwelcome visitor, "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I thought I could... I tried. I really did. I just wanted to get you out. I tried. But, no matter what happens," he lowered his voice ever more and rested his head against the bars, closing his eyes in exhaustion and looking for all the world as though he were drifting into sleep, "it was worth it, just to see you again. Just for a second."

He trailed off, and Gilbert couldn't reply, couldn't move, too choked up and numb, and hung his head with a gasp that could have been a sob. If he even tried to open his mouth, he would only burst into tears. Felt so awful, so guilty. Had anyone on this planet ever felt so miserable as he did then? Wanted to cry, but didn't, because he didn't want to do it in front of Ludwig. For a moment there, though, it might not have even mattered, as Ludwig swayed to and fro before him and pressed his forehead into the bars, and it was likely that he was asleep.

Gilbert couldn't move.

The always-bored Lieutenant just leaned there, brow high, and watched them.

Then, beyond that dismal air, there was a noise, and when Gilbert finally managed to raise his eyes above Ludwig, the hairs on the back of his neck stood up in terror.

Someone else was here.

" _Ah_ ," came a new voice, and the soft notes and suaveness of the tone made Gilbert shiver the same as if it had just started snowing, " _Lyubvi vse vozrasty pakorny_."

It was _him_.

Gilbert wished, then, that he had died in that explosion, because then Ludwig would never have wound up here with this man.

His blood turned to ice, and from his seat on the concrete floor, Gilbert could see the Russian towering up from behind the reposing Ludwig, a calm smile on his face as he looked down at them with a tilted head. Curiously. Amusedly. He was dressed more immaculately than he had been the past few times he had come, almost as if he had had some kind of sixth sense that today something special was happening. He turned to his companion then, and seemed so damn happy, the bastard, looked so amused, alright, like he was watching a great show.

" _Kto eto_?"

A shrug from the dull Lieutenant, and, reaching down, the General placed a large hand on Ludwig's shoulder, and grunted thickly, "Hey! You? Who?"

Oh, the sight of that hand there, the sight of that man _touching_ Ludwig, his Ludwig, his little brother, the _sight_ of it—

If he hadn't been so terrified, he would have tried to rip the world apart.

Ludwig started from sleep, and raised his head, wearily.

"Who?"

For a moment, Gilbert locked eyes with his brother, and Ludwig smiled weakly, coming back down to earth.

A final stare between them.

In there, beyond the regret, Gilbert saw love.

"Hey. Don't worry about _me_ ," Ludwig whispered, and then, pulling together every bit of dignity and resolve that he possessed, Ludwig hauled himself tiredly to his feet and turned around. He stood tall, but not as tall as the Russian, and met his eyes with a high chin. Proud and calm and in control. Everything Gilbert was not.

Ludwig was the most beautiful he had ever seen.

Despite the lurching fright in his veins and the nausea in his stomach, Gilbert couldn't help but be taken aback in awe at Ludwig's confidence in the face of this terrifying General, who had broken _him_ into submission the very second he had laid eyes upon him. Ludwig was brave. Always had been. Gilbert was _proud_ , proud of him, and in the back of his mind he hoped that maybe Ludwig had learned it from him. But he doubted it.

Maybe Alfred and Roderich had taught him.

Gilbert had never taught Ludwig anything worth learning.

The General began to speak in Russian, calmly, that soft voice always gentle, and the Lieutenant followed suit, dictating almost mechanically. Yet even as he spoke, the General was staring at Ludwig, and Gilbert hated the way his pale eyes raked Ludwig up and down. Made him shudder.

The Lieutenant's droll voice.

"How did you get in here? All of the _Stasi_ are specially trained, by my own KGB. And yet somehow you slipped past them. I admit that I am curious. How did you get in? Either you've been trained yourself, or I have to do some spring cleaning in the department."

"Maybe both," Ludwig said, and his voice cracked with the effort of speaking.

The Russian laughed.

"Or just luck, more like! Why did you come here? Just for him? All that trouble for _him_? Who is he to you?"

Ludwig stood strong, although he swayed in exhaustion.

"My brother."

Gilbert couldn't even watch anymore, and squinted his shut as he bowed his head. Couldn't believe it, couldn't, didn't know how any of this had _happened_.

"You're an Easterner?"

Ludwig shook his head, and the General's eyes lit up. He spoke faster and higher, obviously quite interested, and the Lieutenant's droll voice did not match his superior's enthusiasm in any sense.

"Westerner?"

Ludwig nodded, and it was as if someone had given the General a damn present from the excitement on his face. Why was he so _excited_ by that?

"Indeed! So, you crossed the border _and_ broke into a _Stasi_ office. That's quite a bit of effort. You had to have had help." Ludwig shrugged a shoulder noncommittally, but the Russian waved it off. "No matter. The act alone is impressive. So. You got in. But how did you plan on getting _him_ out? Indulge me."

At this, Ludwig fell dead silent, and the Russian lifted his chin knowingly, tucking one hand behind his back. It was obvious to everyone there that Ludwig had only planned his venture up to the point of getting in, and had given no thought as to how exactly he would get Gilbert out. How strange; Ludwig never did anything without planning it perfectly first. Must have been so desperate.

The General turned his gaze briefly to Gilbert, who flinched back without thinking, and, oh, Gilbert was _glad_ that Ludwig's back was to him, because he would have been ashamed for Ludwig to see him shaking so. He had bossed Ludwig around his whole life, and didn't want Ludwig to see how easily someone else had bossed Gilbert.

Ludwig was still.

The Russian tilted his head and smiled in an amicable manner that was far beyond inappropriate for the situation.

"I see. Your brother inflicted quite a bit of damage on this building. Tempered steel doors are expensive. Money that goes to the _Stasi_ comes out of the war chest. Money I could put to better uses. I would have enjoyed sending him to a work camp in Siberia to pay off his debt, but all of my good gulags were dissolved. I only have, ah, _gentle_ ones, if you will." He paused to gauge a reaction, but Ludwig was impassive, at least on the surface, and the General continued on with a nonchalant wave of his hand. "But, I was still thinking of having him sent to Siberia. I..." The translator paused, narrowing his eyes in a moment of what could have been annoyance, and then carried on dutifully, "I just opened a new prison, you see. I would like to fill it before the end of the year."

The word 'Siberia' was enough to shake even the bravest of men, and Gilbert could see that Ludwig's hands were beginning to tremble at his sides, no matter how hard he tried to hide it.

Siberia.

Terrified of the sound of it, the notion of it, the thought of it, but god, Gilbert would gladly go to Siberia, if only Ludwig would get sent out the door and back to the West, safe and untouched. Would have done it in a heartbeat, and he wanted to speak up and say as much, but he lost his voice in the face of the smiling General. He wasn't as brave as Ludwig was, not as unshakable.

"The doors," Ludwig suddenly uttered, strangely and slowly. "The doors. I'll pay, whatever you want. I'll pay for the doors," Ludwig offered, stepping forward dumbly even though he must have known that it was impossible that the offer would be accepted.

As if Ludwig had any money.

Was Ludwig so tired, so out of it, so exhausted that he truly thought that would work?

As expected, both of the Reds scoffed, nearly at the same time, and the General's smile stayed put.

"Kind of you. But I'm afraid that I am taking this rather personally. I am just touring the Eastern Bloc, you see, and only the second day in Berlin my offices are bombed. I don't like terrorists," he added, primly. "Tomorrow I leave. What, I wonder, will become of _him_?"

Ludwig's face fell, his eyes squinted, and for an awful moment Gilbert was sure he was crying.

"What do you _want_?"

"Who said I wanted anything?"

A trick question; something of value was in the air. Otherwise, the _Stasi_ would have already cuffed Ludwig and dragged him off. They were only playing a game. It was getting _dull_ , and Gilbert finally regained his voice, if only barely.

"Ludwig, go home! Just run!"

Oh, god, wouldn't he just _run_? Ludwig was a fast sprinter, had to be with those long damn legs, and if he could reach the door...

Maybe.

Ludwig only shook his head to clear it, and kept still, and at last uncrumpled his face.

"If you don't want anything," he muttered, wearily, "Then let him go. You've done enough to him. Didn't your mother teach you about mercy?"

Ludwig's speech was so strange; thick and clumsy and half of the words were clipped off on the ends. Not speaking as he normally did. Using odd words. He hadn't slept. For how long?

The General scoffed. "Hm. Not possible, I dare say. Maybe I enjoy having him here. The cell looks better with someone in it, no? You'll have to make a better offer than money. I have no want of money. And appeals to my morality are unnecessary. I'm in the army; I don't need morality. How boring. You can do better than that!"

Vague allusions and teasing possibilities. Gilbert knew that Ludwig cared not for them.

Games.

Never had, and Ludwig—

* * *

—and Ludwig, as irritable and exhausted and miserable as he was, was inclined to agree. Sick of this game, before it had even began. Couldn't stand it. Couldn't stand seeing Gilbert behind those bars. Angry, so angry, and yet the fog of absolute exhaustion couldn't let it break through. Had never been so tired in his life.

Somehow, he found less air here than he did when he was having a panic attack.

"What do you _want_?" he asked, impatiently and tiredly, his voice nearly a whine as he fought to keep himself standing straight up.

Gilbert was screaming from behind. His head was pounding. Gilbert's voice was too loud. If Gilbert would just shut up and let him _think_.

"Ludwig! _Go_!"

He sent Gilbert a look of agitation, and waved his hand in the air to silence his brother. For a second, Gilbert fell still, and Ludwig turned his attention back to the man looming before him.

God. He was _so_ tired. Three days. If he could only rest his head for just a moment. Couldn't think. Couldn't think, his head hurt _so_ bad, couldn't fuckin' think. He had made a mistake in barging in here so boldly. Now he was no better off than Gilbert. Trapped. Caught.

The Russian before him gave him a short, quick leer, and then said, "We're bargaining, aren't we? You make _me_ an offer."

Gilbert started screaming again.

The Russian began to circle him relentlessly; a shark that smelled blood in the water. Their voices were driving him _crazy_ , as Gilbert's screams filled one ear, and the soft whispers of the Russian and his translator amalgamated into one haunting, unsettling hum that filled the other.

Ludwig raised his hands to his head, and when the disjointed buzz became too much, he cried out roughly, "What do you _want_?"

For a moment, he thought he would faint. Tottering. Lightheadedness. Ringing in his ears.

He had almost gone down. He was dizzy.

Taking advantage of his break in composure, the Russian clasped his hands behind his back, studying him thoroughly, and then began to speak, and the pleased look on his face was that of a man who knew he now had the upper hand.

"They say that I'm the worst of the generals. Heartless, even. But I'm not a bad person, you see. It's the rules that make me merciless. I have a job to do, just like everyone else. Sometimes my job makes things black and white. In the military you have to think of the unit, not the individual. You interest me. So, I will give you an opportunity that I feel is adequate while conforming to the rules. Because I admire your bravery, I'll turn a blind eye."

The translator seemed strangely annoyed, then, staring unblinkingly at his commander as he spoke thoughtlessly out of habit, and his crossed arms had fallen down at his sides. Looked about as irritated as Ludwig felt, come to think.

Gilbert's cries stopped dead in the air, and even Ludwig felt his breath stop in anticipation.

"What?"

"What is your brother worth to you?"

"Anything," Ludwig responded without hesitation, and the Russian's lips curved into a soft, knowing smile.

"I thought so. Then, I make my offer. The books say that I have one prisoner. We think of it, almost, as if we were doing inventory. One comes in, and one goes out. I will release your brother. I will wipe away all criminal charges. I will walk him to the border myself. I will see that he enters the West, safe and secure. The record of him will no longer exist. And I ask only one small thing in return. You must..."

The Lieutenant trailed off, for a moment, and Ludwig felt himself go rigid with expectancy as the brunet turned wide, almost angry eyes to his superior and slipped back into Russian. What was happening? He had a horrible, sinking feeling...

A suspicion.

The General's voice hardened as he barked what sounded like an order, and the Lieutenant finally looked away, jaw clamped and fists clenched, and could only lower his eyes and finish, irritably, "You must take his place."

The air went stale.

" _One_ of you must stay," he amended, almost as a cruel afterthought, "and the other will be free to go. The one who leaves will not face prosecution. The other will go to Siberia. You have two minutes to decide. Only _you_ will have the final say."

The translator looked up then and locked eyes with Ludwig, adding, snippily, "He would prefer for _you_ to stay. He finds your brother boring."

The room fell deathly silent, and the Russian leaned back against the concrete wall nonchalantly, arms crossed above his chest as he watched them with what could have been interest.

Two minutes.

Two minutes until the end of the world.

Of course. Of course it would be this way. Somehow, Ludwig had known it would be from the very second that man had started speaking. He had known it somehow, deep down. It wasn't enough to merely give an order and rip them apart as he would. No, that wouldn't do. Better to make it an impossible decision to be considered amongst themselves, and to ensure that they would live with the knowledge of their choice for the rest of their lives. Punishment enough.

Torture.

Two minutes.

"I..."

Just like that, Ludwig couldn't breathe anymore. He couldn't think. Lost his voice. Lost the feeling in his hands. Lost his train of thought. Lost sense of himself. Lost his balance. Falling back against the iron bars, Ludwig hung his head, as his world crashed down around his feet, and felt as if he were sinking down into sand.

No air.

What could he do?

Numbness.

_Together, forever._

He had spent his whole life being protected by Gilbert from the worst parts of the world, from everything, sometimes even from life itself. Had been sheltered by Roderich and Erzsébet. Had been supported by Alfred. But this time there was no one to lean against. No one there to hold his hand. No way to turn back. No way out. No one to tell him what to do.

Alone.

Reaching up and holding his head in his hands as it threatened to explode, he wanted more than anything just to scream, or run, or even just sit down on the floor and cry, but he didn't, couldn't, forcing himself to stay strong for Gilbert's sake. Gilbert. Everything he did was for Gilbert's sake. Everything. Gilbert had protected him for so many years. Overprotected him, yeah, might have actually stifled him, but Gilbert had done it because he had _loved_ Ludwig. Gilbert loved him, and that was more than anyone could ever ask for.

He turned around on unsteady feet, and caught Gilbert's horrified gaze.

Oh.

_Anything._ He'd do anything for Gilbert. Anything at all.

Gilbert was shaking his head, eyes wide and full of unspeakable terror, and then Gilbert started screaming again. His words could barely penetrate into Ludwig's overloaded mind. Could hear his voice but couldn't seem to make out the words.

This was too much, too soon, and he was so _young_.

He wobbled back around, and looked in turn at the soldiers. So sick.

Gilbert's screeching.

" _Don't_! What are you doing? _Ludwig_! Look at me! Don't even think about it, don't you even _think_ about it, Ludwig, I'm already in here! I'm already _here_ , don't you even think about it!"

He had never really even had a chance to live. Gilbert had wasted his entire life, high and drunk, causing trouble, and Ludwig had just set out for the first time in the world, was just starting.

But, then...

Ludwig closed his eyes, and rested his palms against his ears in a desperate attempt to gather his thoughts, as Gilbert shrieked, "Are you _stupid_? Get outta here! Get _out_! This is your chance! Go back home and forget me!"

Forget him? Couldn't ever forget Gilbert.

But _then_ , Gilbert had a name. Gilbert had a history, a family tree. Gilbert knew who he was. Where he had come from. Ludwig was no one. Always had been. Didn't even know his real name. Gilbert was worth more than he was, in the end, to the world.

His head hurt.

" _Don't_!"

Gilbert had always made the decisions before.

" _You_ choice," came a sudden whisper close by, and he started awake, looking over to see that the Russian had come forward from the wall and was a mere breath from his face, smiling tranquilly as he whispered in terrible German, "Not, ah...he? You."

Eyes boring into his own. In them, Ludwig was pretty sure he saw calamity.

"Ludwig, _go home_!" the voice from behind cried, and as he turned from the Russian to meet his brother's eyes instead, Ludwig realized with a sinking stomach that Gilbert had started to cry. "I'm your big brother!" he moaned, as he rested his forehead against the red-stained concrete, "You're supposed to listen to me, you bastard! I'm supposed to _protect_ you! Make me stay! I ain't gettin' any younger, you know? Don't even think about it! Make me stay! I couldn't ever... If I... If you..." He clutched his chest with his uninjured hand, as though his heart was stopping in his chest. "There was so much that I wanted for you to do."

He broke off and buried his face in his hand, dissolving into sobs.

Oh, Gilbert.

"Time is up."

Gilbert couldn't stay here. Wouldn't last. Not with this Russian. Not with this man. Gilbert was the stronger one, physically, but he couldn't handle these mental assaults of isolation and torment and ruthlessness as well as Ludwig could. Gilbert was too crazy. He was too emotionally fragile, too insecure, too unsure of his own strengths, too restless to be locked away, too volatile to keep it together.

The thought of his wild, lively, unruly brother broken into subservience was too much, too much, and Ludwig turned around to meet the Russian's pale eyes. It was too late to go back now. Ludwig knew what he had to do.

Pulling himself up straight to fight off the nausea and the dizziness, forehead clammy and pulse hammering, he still held his chin high, and said, decisively, "Right! Send him home. I'll stay."

With an awful, strangled cry, Gilbert collapsed onto the floor, head buried in his arms, and the Russian hid a smile behind his fist.

Then, despite the terrible fear in his heart and the tremble of his hands, Ludwig added, as sternly as he could, "But I have a condition of _my_ own."

A lame attempt to keep a little control.

For a second, the Lieutenant had lifted up his brow and curled his lip, a look of absolute and utter annoyance upon his face, and Ludwig thought for a moment that he wasn't even going to bother translating, as if it wasn't even worth his time, but at last he shook his head, and griped out the words. When his command had been translated, the Russian placed his hands on his hips, a rather breathless smile on his face, astonishment perhaps, at the gall, and then he laughed, briefly. A cold, high-pitched, frightening sound.

"Oh! And what is that?"

The Russian looked enthralled, somehow, and that made him ever the more terrifying.

Ludwig felt like a mouse under the cat's paw.

And when he opened his mouth to speak, Ludwig's resolve foundered under the unwavering stare, and he barely managed to whisper, "Just let me... Let _me_ take him to the border. Please."

"You'll run," the Lieutenant murmured, without hesitation, and Ludwig shook his head, against the ringing in his ears.

"I won't. I swear. I give you my word." He looked over his shoulder at the crumpled Gilbert, pitiful Gilbert, sobbing so hard that his entire frame shook with the effort, and whispered, "I just want to say goodbye. Please. I'll stay if you let me say goodbye."

Had never seen Gilbert cry out of anything that wasn't anger and frustration. Couldn't stand it.

There was a pause, a pondering, as the Russian raised his gloved hand to his chin, thoughtfully. He looked them over, and then waved a hand carelessly in the air, as though swatting a fly. Ludwig, mercifully, was humored, and to be honest he was surprised.

"Go."

Ludwig's relief was short lived, and the Russian stepped forward and grabbed his upper arm and yanked him in, taking his chin in a strong grip, so close together that he could feel the General's breath warm on his cheek. Then he spoke in a tone so soft and dangerous that it made Ludwig's blood freeze in his veins even before he knew what was actually being said. Just that tone.

Never heard anything as terrifying as that voice.

"You have half an hour. If you are even one second late, the only thing your brother will see on the other side of that wall is a bullet, and you will regret the day you betrayed my confidence."

Ludwig shuddered.

* * *

For obvious political reasons, simply walking past the border guards was out of the question, but the Lieutenant, who had irritably introduced himself as Toris or some such, had led them under cover of darkness to a makeshift tunnel that had been long since closed. All _Stasi_ guarding this tunnel had been called off, and Gilbert was free to cross through without hindrance. The iron grate that guarded it was unlocked, and they would have privacy for their farewell.

Ha. He made it sound so simple. So casual. As if it weren't the end of the world.

Every step was harder than the last.

As they neared, Toris had stopped in the street, leaning back against a lamppost as he waited, cocking and un-cocking the gun at his waist thoughtfully. He was far enough away to be out of earshot and almost out of sight, but even if he hadn't been, it wouldn't have mattered; Ludwig knew he couldn't run.

He'd made a deal.

Gilbert could barely walk and was too distraught to even speak, and Ludwig had all but dragged him the distance, and finally they came to the grate that the Lieutenant had described to them. It was large, ominous, and Ludwig realized that it was just part of the ancient, now abandoned sewer system. He peered down, and could see that it was a good ways to the bottom. A long fall. The supporting ladder had long since been removed. Once Gilbert was in it, there was no climbing out. That was for the best. Gave Gilbert no choice in the matter.

Resting Gilbert gently down on the pavement, Ludwig took the grate into his hands, and pulled with all his strength. The sound of iron scraping pavement made him shudder, and brought despondent Gilbert out of his stupor enough for him to sit up straight and gape down into the hole. Gilbert stared down at the void below like it was going to swallow him whole.

Ludwig extended a hand.

"Come on. I'll help you down."

Said it, but honestly he wasn't sure he actually had strength left to help Gilbert down. He was about to fall over any second, he knew it. Couldn't stand for much longer.

Gilbert didn't budge, bracing his legs firmly against the ground. And then, not surprisingly, Gilbert looked up at him and became difficult. "I'm not going. Not without you," he said, stubbornly, and Ludwig shook his head in exasperation, feeling the urgency rising.

How long had it been now? The half hour was surely drawing near.

Time, time, time. They never had enough _time_.

"I _can't_ go! There's no time for this. You _have_ to go, now! Go!"

Gilbert shook his head, pale, dirty hair shaking with him. His eyes were defiant past the daze and confusion, as though even in his broken state he thought he still wielded some kind of fraternal power over Ludwig. And when Ludwig, agitated, reached out and tried to grab his arm, he wrenched away.

"I can't. I _won't_. Come with me! We can get out of here, together! We can go, right now. Let's go."

Why did it have to be this way? Where had they gone wrong? They had been destined to be miserable.

Nothing had ever worked out for them.

"Gilbert!" he cried, as he struggled to keep himself from bursting into tears, "I _can't_! Don't you understand? I can't!" He clenched his hands together in front of his chest in a silent plea, adding, desperately, "Even if we ran now, how far would we get? They'll get us. They'll find us. They'll shoot you! And _all_ of this will have been for _nothing_! I can't go with you this time. _Please_! Please go."

And _still_ , Gilbert shook his head, like a stubborn child. "I won't leave you here. ...I know! You should go, and I'll stay."

Stubborn. Foolish. They'd already played this fuckin' game, they had, and they'd lost. Their time together was gone.

Something shifted in the shadows, maybe the Lieutenant, and feeling his heart race in fear, Ludwig reached the end of his short rope and stomped his foot furiously, shrieking, " _GO_!"

Gilbert just stared up at him. Didn't move.

Reaching out, he grabbed Gilbert's collar and yanked him forward, maybe too harshly. Gilbert struggled against him, and had always been the stronger one, but in his weakened state he was no match, not even for equally weak Ludwig. How pitiful they were in that moment.

The void loomed out. The final distance between them.

Dragging him over to the grate, Ludwig suddenly enveloped the thrashing Gilbert in a final, firm embrace and placed a swift kiss on his bloody cheek, for the last time, pushed their faces together, inhaled the scent of Gilbert, whispered in his ear, tried to remember everything, everything, and then with every last shred of strength he had left, Ludwig threw Gilbert unceremoniously down into the dark void.

Gone.

Everything was gone. The smell of Gilbert's hair was gone.

Gilbert landed hard on his broken hand and shrieked, but Ludwig had little time to be sympathetic.

"Go on!"

A long moment of gasping and hissing, and, as Gilbert tried to pull himself to his feet, Ludwig slid the heavy iron back into place, and looked down from above. Gilbert's pale face shone out from the shadows like a ghost. Staring. And, for a while there, for a beautiful, delirious second, Ludwig felt _happy_.

Gilbert was safe down below.

Safe.

Gilbert tried to reach up, fingers clutching the air aimlessly, and he moaned, "Oh, god! Ludwig! You can still leave me! Quick! Help me back up, and I'll stay put. Please, Lutz, please, please, pull me back up."

Gilbert was smiling at the end of his pleading and speaking gently, breath visible in the cold, as though easy coaxing would somehow convince Ludwig to turn the tables on this terrible situation. Gilbert hadn't spoken to him like that since he had been a child.

"Come on, help me up."

" _Please_ ," Ludwig whispered, feeling absolutely heartbroken, and he fell to his knees, gripping the iron bars in his hands as Gilbert looked up at him helplessly. Suddenly he was fucking crying, couldn't hold it in anymore, couldn't help it, couldn't stop it, and he somehow managed to say, past his sobbing, "You have to go now. There's nothing else you can do for me. Go _home_ , Gilbert. Go home. Please, go home."

Gilbert wasn't smiling anymore, and that gentle tone of voice vanished.

Gilbert was angry, then.

"Lutz! Don't go! You can't! Open it up, you open it up right now and help me outta here! Get me the hell outta here, Lutz, are you stupid? What are you doing? Get me up! You're so fuckin' stupid, you always were! You useless bastard! You can't stay!"

A squint of his eyes and a pursing of his lips as he tried so hard to stop bawling, but he couldn't, and he couldn't stand lookin' at Gilbert anymore, he couldn't take it, and pulled himself to his feet. One final silent transmission, one last look at each other, Ludwig taking in as much of Gilbert as he could.

He would not see him again. Their paths had split. End of the road.

With that look, that stare, Ludwig nodded his head, braced his shoulders, and whispered, with finality, "Goodbye, brother."

And that was that.

Vision blurred and heart pounding, Ludwig turned on his heel and flew off, as Gilbert's faint screams followed him.

"Ludwig! Don't _go_!"

Oh. God.

" _LUDWIG_!"

How had it ever come to this?

Soon, Gilbert's voice faded. Ludwig was surprised that the world was still standing, still intact, because he felt like it should have burned up all around him. Gasping for breath, Ludwig skidded into the main street, and the waiting Lieutenant glanced over at him from beneath the gaslight, brow low and eyes unreadable. A moment of silence, as Ludwig tried to reach up and dry his face. Gilbert, like so many times before, was gone.

A snappy whisper.

"Took you long enough. Let's go."

No more Alfred. No more Erzsébet. No more Roderich. And no more Gilbert.

Life had ended.

Ludwig hung his head, and walked in step with the moody Lieutenant, trying to compose himself. Pitiful, sniveling as he was.

As they walked in the shadows, Toris finally looked over at him, brow low and lips pushed out thoughtfully. Cranky and yet curious. Ludwig didn't meet his eyes, too crestfallen to lift his head.

Their footsteps echoed in the street.

Out of nowhere, another comment, this one just a little less testy.

"I think you're very brave, for all it matters," Toris finally said, in a smooth, firm, if not terse voice, turning his eyes back ahead, but Ludwig, cold and clammy and absolutely faint, disagreed.

When the _Stasi_ office was becoming visible in the distance, Ludwig shivered, knowing what lay in wait inside. He didn't feel very brave. Didn't feel like a hero. He wanted to go _home_.

Gilbert had cost him everything.

It was worth it. Had to be worth it.

Gilbert would have done it for him.


	7. Broken Dreams

**Chapter 7**

**Broken Dreams**

Knocking on a door had never been so hard.

He'd been down and out more times than he could have counted, he'd had to pick himself up out of gutters and alleys, but never, never, had trudging through the streets of Berlin been so damn hard. Not ever. Lonely and injured, holding his broken hand gingerly at the level of his chest, Gilbert found himself wandering down streets that he'd seen a hundred times and yet still didn't recognize, and it was with what little dignity he had left that he had ignored the quiet concerns of passersby.

Just walked.

Gilbert's mind was too focused on how he was going to bring himself to do what was necessary to really even know where he was going. Just let his feet lead him.

What he could possibly say. How he would face them. How he could have ever said it.

Somehow, when he looked up, there it was.

And now, standing here before Ludwig's door, _knowing_ that Ludwig was not inside, he struggled to keep himself from turning tail and crawling away. It would have better saved his pride, would have kept him from having to admit his godawful failure as a brother, would have been easier.

Couldn't.

There would be time later for self-loathing. For now, they deserved to know what had happened. All of them. They deserved that much. But, _god_ , he was so guilty. So guilty. So ashamed. They would hate him.

Didn't know how he was going to say it.

Swallowing his anxiety, he reached up, and knocked, once. So softly that he honestly hoped they wouldn't hear it. He hoped that no one had heard him, so that he could walk off and pretend that he had tried. Pitiful. No go; the door wrenched open immediately, and when Erzsébet stood in the frame and laid eyes upon him, his guilt intensified tenfold as she burst into tears.

Absolute bawling. Hadn't ever seen that woman cry that hard.

" _Gilbert_!" she wailed, as she threw her arms around his neck and pulled him inside. "Oh! Oh, god, Gilbert, I thought I would never _see_ you again! Oh, god, how— Are you okay? Oh! Gilbert!"

Numb and dazed, horrified and dizzy, he allowed her to drag him into Ludwig's immaculate kitchen as she blubbered away, and his stomach lurched when he saw Alfred and Roderich sitting at the table, speaking gently to each other.

He was in the West, at long last, where he had always wanted to be. So why was it so damn dark and misty and foreboding? Felt more like he'd gotten shot right out into the black of radioactive space.

Oh, _no_. Felt so sick. They were all _here_. All of them. Sitting together, waiting for Ludwig to return. Instead, they would get _him_. They were waiting for Ludwig. They got Gilbert.

They wouldn't be happy about it.

When they noticed him, when they saw him, they both leapt to their feet, and Alfred came over, tall and worried and babbling away in English for his astonishment. Alfred looked absolutely bewildered, utterly confounded, and punched Gilbert's shoulder gently as if he didn't really believe he was there at all. Kept on hearing Ludwig's name in his speech, and Gilbert knew that Alfred was probably saying, 'I can't believe that stupid son of a bitch actually did it!'

_Oh_. He hadn't.

Gilbert stood there paralyzed, caught like a deer under Roderich's burning gaze as Roderich took one pace forward. A twitch of Roderich's eyes to the door. Pointless. No one else was going to come walking through. Gilbert was absolutely petrified.

The truth was...

He feared Roderich above all else. Their history was complicated, to say the least. Him and Roderich. Couldn't ever get along.

Because hadn't it been Roderich, after all, who had found Ludwig all those years ago, lost and confused in the street and without parents? Hadn't it been Roderich and Erzsébet who had intended to take him home with them and raise him? And hadn't it been _he_ who had risen to the challenge, proclaiming that he wanted a little brother _so_ badly, and that he could take good care of a child alone even though he was only seventeen? His parents had just died in that car crash, and he had been _so_ lonely.

Ludwig needed _someone_. Gilbert had always wanted a little brother. Fate had given him a second chance at life.

Roderich, always so responsible, had been reluctant to leave Ludwig in his care, rightfully so, the way Gilbert was, but Gilbert was insistent, and Erzsébet had finally convinced the wary ambassador to give him a shot. If not for her, Roderich would never have given Gilbert the time of day. And after the first few years (under intense supervision, of course) had gone so well, Roderich had finally let him take full custody.

Life had given him a second chance at happiness.

He blew it.

And Roderich sat here now, waiting. Expecting.

He feared Roderich above _all_ else. Because he knew, deep down, that Roderich had been right about him all along. He had never been suited for the role of a guardian. Now he would be forced to admit it. Roderich had been right. He feared Roderich because Ludwig had always loved Roderich, and sometimes Gilbert knew, although Ludwig would never admit it, that Ludwig had loved Roderich just a little bit more than he had loved Gilbert.

Had to tell Roderich now that, because of Gilbert, his son was never coming home.

"Where's Ludwig?" Erzsébet finally whispered, when no one else gathered the nerve, and Gilbert shuddered.

Had to say it.

Had to fuckin' _say_ it, and he didn't know if he could do it before he fainted. The worst thing he would ever say.

Pulling himself up to his full height, he braced his arms at his sides, looking Roderich in the eyes as long as he could. The gaze was expectant, and daunting, but Gilbert somehow gathered together his strength, and whispered, with finality :

"He's not coming back."

The worst words to ever come from his mouth.

He'd have cried, then, if he hadn't been so numb. Couldn't cry. Could barely even breathe, let alone cry.

It took a second for his words to resonate, and he dropped his gaze as Alfred staggered back, catching himself against the wall with a dull thud. Gilbert hung his head, because he couldn't stand to meet any of their eyes, knowing full well what he would see there. Hate. Accusation. Regret. Hurt.

Hopelessness.

He heard Alfred's low, rasping moan.

"What do you mean? What? He _has_ to come back. You're lying. Gotta be. He has to come back. You're such a fuckin' _liar_."

Then, as Alfred ran to the door to look out in stubborn disbelief, Erzsébet was upon Gilbert, pulling him into a firm embrace. It was soothing, if not somewhat mortifying, and he felt himself falling to his knees in utter despair as she buried her face in his neck and murmured, gently, "It's not your fault."

Roderich was still.

Not your fault.

...it wasn't? How?

It was his fault. It was, but, more than anything, he just wanted that to be true. He longed to believe her, wanted so much to believe her, because the alternative was too much to bear. That he had sold Ludwig out. That his own stupid mistakes had doomed the one he had swore he would give his life to protect. That he had let Ludwig down again. That he had put himself first again and sent Ludwig down the river.

That he had _failed_. Again and again, as he always had.

Gilbert fell into her chest as she held him tightly, and when he buried his face in her shoulder, she ran her hands up and down his back. Didn't really have the effect it was supposed to. It occurred to him, as he knelt there, that he would never feel Ludwig's hands again. He could have died.

Just wanted everything to stop. Wanted Ludwig back.

As she whispered away in his ear, Gilbert lifted his head up, and after a moment, he dared himself to open his eyes.

Kinda wished he hadn't.

Roderich stood back behind them, arms stiff and straight at his sides, and he stared down at Gilbert with an indescribably terrifying expression, jaw clenched so hard that Gilbert could see his pulse racing in his neck.

Tottering on the edge.

Roderich would break soon. Roderich, to whom Ludwig had meant so much. To whom Ludwig had been like a son. Roderich's eye started to twitch, as he tried to keep his breathing under control. His hands started twitching soon after. His chest started heaving. A sudden, furious clench of his fists. A bracing of his legs. A rush of red up his pale neck and face. His eyes squinted. His brow was so low that it had reached his glasses.

The hurricane was starting to breach the shore; Gilbert could _see_ it, whirling there in Roderich's eyes.

Gilbert couldn't stand it, couldn't stand the sight of that wrathful Roderich, and moaned, beseechingly, "Roderich! I'm so... I'm so..."

He couldn't even say it.

'Sorry'.

Yeah, he _was_ sorry, alright. In more ways than one. Knew he was, always had been, and still now, even now, he couldn't fuckin' _say_ it. He couldn't say it. Couldn't say 'sorry'.

He deserved to be where Ludwig was.

Erzsébet's grip upon him suddenly tightened almost protectively, as though she knew what was coming, and surely she did, being married to Roderich and knowing his mind, and after a short, awful stillness Roderich took an unsteady step backwards, shaking his head. As if he were dizzy suddenly, from all that anger.

Only a second, though, and the storm came back.

The look on his face was terrible. Terrible. Hadn't ever seen a look like that on composed Roderich's face. Like his world had suddenly come to a grinding halt. As if everything he had ever built up had come crashing down. As if everything he had ever known had flipped over. And Roderich knew damn well who was to blame. It was Gilbert's fault. With Roderich, it seemed, it was _always_ his fault. This time, and maybe every time, it was true.

Ludwig was gone. Wasn't coming back.

A short silence, and then Roderich's crumbling façade broke with the force of a volcano, and everything just slipped down from there.

" _You_! How _could_ you?" Roderich began, and his usually cool, suave voice had become a horrible hiss of fury.

The storm broke.

Gilbert couldn't help but flinch back at Roderich's wrath, even in Erzsébet's arms. Swore that Roderich's look was burning him.

When Roderich finally started screaming, screeching, _shrieking_ , Gilbert didn't even recognize that voice anymore. Hadn't known that Roderich even possessed a voice like that. So high and furious that sometimes it broke, and most of the vowels seemed to be lost to the air. Hadn't ever screamed like that.

" _How could you_? You're so stupid, _Gilbert_! You're so fucking _stupid_! How could you have let this happen? I left him with you because you swore you would _PROTECT HIM_! You! You wanted him so fuckin' bad and for _what?_ For _what_? To give him away to save your own ass! You! _YOU_ —" Roderich wrenched his fist back and slammed it into the wall with enough force that the hapless drywall collapsed beneath it.

Roderich had never hit anything in his life. Not even Gilbert, for all those years, even when Gilbert had deserved a punch.

Alfred came rushing back in, and stopped in the threshold of the kitchen, frozen under the horrible sound of Roderich's voice.

"You were supposed to _watch over_ him! You said you could _do_ it! I let you _have_ him! I let you _take_ him! I told you that he would be better off with me, and you still wanted to _keep_ him! Because you did what you always do! You think about yourself first! You knew what was best for him, but you wanted to give it a go anyway! 'Oh, yeah, I can do it, sure, it's no fuckin' problem to raise a _kid'_! _WELL_! Look! Look where it got us! Look what's happened! I would have taken him from you and took him to Vienna if I knew this would happen! I should have _taken_ him! I should have taken him—oh, _oh_ , I was so _stupid_ to let you have him! So _stupid_ , I should never have left him with _you_ , not ever, none of this woulda happened, none of it! I shoulda never let you anywhere near him, I shoulda blocked you off the first year! A _DOG_ could have done a better goddamn job of parenting! I should never have _trusted_ you! Why did I let you keep him? You're so _useless_ , Gilbert, you're so fuckin' useless, you always were, always, and I don't know why I let you _keep_ him—"

It was true. Oh, god, it was _true_ , everything, all of it, and Gilbert buried his face in Erzsébet's chest in shame, and her whisper of, "Don't listen to him," was lost to the universe as he bowed under Roderich's righteous fury.

Because Roderich was right.

Alfred had bowed his head then, finally having no choice but to accept that Gilbert hadn't been lying, that Ludwig wasn't coming back, and even though he wasn't making any sound, his face was crumpled and his eyes were squinted shut and his shoulders were shaking; crying.

Alfred was _crying_.

_Together._

"It should be _you_ over there! He should _never_ have had to go over there to get you, if you could just be more fuckin' careful! But you're such a showboat! This whole thing is your goddamn fault! _The whole thing_! You can't do _anything_ right! I could have gotten you a visa if you would have just _sat there and waited_! But you don't know _how_ to wait, and you just had to show off to the whole fuckin' world, and Ludwig has to pay for it, like always, and now! Now—!"

Suddenly, as violently and randomly as it had started, Roderich's screeching died down.

A short, spinning silence. So dizzy, so dizzy, he was gonna faint any second, he knew it, if Roderich kept on screaming at him like that—

Ludwig was gone.

Roderich suddenly fell against the wall, clenching his fingers in his hair as his anger was completely exhausted, and he moaned, miserably, in a voice that was nearly completely gone from his awful shrieking, "Oh _god_! Oh, god! I wish it were _you_! I wish it were you. It should have been _you_. He was my son, mine, I shoulda had him, I should have. He was mine. Oh. Oh! Oh, god, Gilbert, I hate you _so_ much. I _hate_ you. I _hate_ you. I wish it were _you_. I wish you would have just died. I hate you."

And then Roderich, stern, immovable, collected Roderich, Roderich, who held countries together, fell forward atop the table and burst into tears, and Gilbert retreated inside of himself with guilt, and remembered nothing more.

_Forever._

He shut down his mind. Reality was too painful.

Ludwig was gone.

The truth was, he had never been worth anything.

* * *

Sleep, if one has been deprived of it, quickly becomes the most important sustenance for the body. More so than food, and even water. Couldn't survive without sleep, and somehow Ludwig just hadn't exactly ever realized that. Did he ever now.

Sleep.

All Ludwig wanted to do was _sleep_. Would have done anything, anything at all, if they had just let him sleep. If he had been given a choice, Ludwig would not have refused the bloody concrete slab on which Gilbert had been tethered to; he was so desperately tired that he could have slept soundly on a bed of nails. So tired. Hadn't ever been so tired. Could have slept standing up, he was so tired.

As it turned out, he had to do neither, and, to his great surprise, he had been escorted, without cuffs, straight out of the _Stasi_ building and into a large military vehicle, where he sat next to the silent Toris and across from the Russian General.

Everything felt so blurry, so distant, so surreal. Barely knew where he was.

Exhaustion.

He just followed where they led him, without a word.

There had been no speaking once in the car, and the Russian's unreadable gaze had proven too much; after several minutes of intense staring, Ludwig had finally admitted defeat and lowered his eyes to his floor. Too tired to give more effort.

The car exhaust drifted up into the cold night. When they were settled, the car started off. Lurching forward. He could feel the Russian's eyes upon him, but refused to look over.

He was _so_ sleepy and so dazed and so numb that he couldn't really even think about what was going on around him, let alone where he was going. The movements of the car, even with this dire situation, were proving to be a little too tempting. He only bowed his head for a second, just a second. It was a second too long; even though his mind was screaming at him to stay on guard and alert, his body had other ideas, and he drifted into sleep in a mere blink. Deep, and dreamless. Merciful.

Sleep. All he wanted.

The moon was on high, circled by white clouds. Stars broke through the gaps. Cold and quiet. Calm. Tranquil. Dreamy. An ideal night for a car ride. No matter where it would lead to. He lost track of time. Rocking back and forth. He could have slept for _years_.

Some time passed.

He didn't know where he was, or how long it had taken to get there; all he knew was that, suddenly, someone was shaking him, and when he opened his bleary eyes, he found himself face to face with a somber Toris. Toris? Pretty sure that was his name, anyway. For all it mattered. Didn't think he would really need to remember this guy; they wouldn't be together for too much longer, once Ludwig was sent off.

It took a second for his sleep-shocked mind to focus, and, as he looked this way and that, Ludwig realized that he had fallen against Toris in his repose. He pulled away, stiffly, and was embarrassed, more than anything. Toris didn't say a word, but must have been agitated to have shaken him awake just to get him off.

Looking across the way, as the ghostly blue streetlamps filled the vehicle with light at the end of every block, Ludwig saw that the Russian, too, had fallen asleep. He was sitting straight up and completely silent, arms crossed, and only his bowed head gave away his state, swaying to and fro every time the vehicle lurched.

Feeling a bit more at ease without the suffocating presence, Ludwig turned back to Toris, and rasped, wearily, "Where are we going?"

For all that mattered, too. Nothing seemed to matter, actually.

Toris looked over, his eyes lit up a dark blue in the streetlamps, studying Ludwig with a peculiar interest, and then he whispered, "To the Czechoslovakian border. We leave the GDR in the morning."

Wait. What? They were leaving, sure, that was normal, but—

"We? Why am _I_ coming with you?"

At this, Toris turned his attention to the sleeping General, and he only shrugged a shoulder, a look of distaste upon his face, saying, quite primly, "Because _he_ wants you to. Why else?"

The exhaustion he felt was not strong enough to stifle his nausea, and he could not help but wonder if the Russian's threat of Siberia had just been a joke. Ah, hell. They would probably just stop on some remote stretch of road along the way and shoot him quick in the back of the head. Probably hadn't ever intended to send him to Siberia. Too much work, maybe, too much effort.

They'd probably just shoot him.

Falling back into the seat, Ludwig turned his head and looked out the window at the passing streets, and realized that a quick and painless death would most likely be a blessing. He would not struggle against them if they tried it, certainly. His mission was complete. Gilbert was safe. He had done what he had set out to do.

Who the hell wanted to be in Siberia, anyway?

With a heavy sigh, he leaned into the seat and slipped back into the realm of sleep, Gilbert's long-gone cries echoing through his ears. It was all worth it. Because Gilbert would have done the same for him, had it been his decision. Gilbert would have risked everything. Given up everything. Gilbert had made a mistake, yeah, but he would have given himself for Ludwig had the situation been reversed. They were supposed to do anything for each other. That had been the promise.

Anything.

He fell into space. Drifted.

As he slept, Gilbert's voice evaporated into the atmosphere.

He slept for hours. As he sat there, vulnerable and helpless, the vehicle suddenly came to a quick halt, and he started from sleep with a deep sigh. Not enough time. He could have slept more. Needed more sleep.

The darkness of the empty night streets were suddenly lit up. His head hurt. Squinting his eyes in the bright lights of a nearby building, he looked out of the window and realized that they were in front of what could have been a very high-end hotel or some such.

Odd.

Suddenly, his head was killing him.

"Get out," Toris suddenly said, with a nudge in his side, and Ludwig obeyed, not having much other choice. The door creaked in the cold air as he pushed it open, and he shivered as he stood out on the sidewalk apprehensively, his thin shirt doing little to protect him from the chilly air.

He stood there, feeling like a damn fool, as he waited for Toris to step out. Tottered a little, as the exhaustion threatened to take him down.

Here, the skies were clear. The stars, beyond the hazy glow, were bright.

He wrapped his arms around his chest without thinking about, shivering as he was, and as he gazed up at the grand hotel with a sense of foreboding, something heavy was suddenly draped over his shoulders. Jumping in alarm, he wrenched his neck over and saw that the General had come up to his side and had placed his own long military coat above him.

Panic.

For a second, he froze, as the Russian's eyes bored into his own, and then the General leaned in and whispered, neatly, " _Ne boisya_."

Didn't understand the words.

Ludwig shuddered at the voice, rough from sleep, but reached up and grabbed the coat nonetheless. His instilled politeness wouldn't really allow him to refuse this small kindness, no matter the circumstance, and that was probably for the best, because being rude to _that_ man didn't seem like a very good idea.

Damn.

"Thanks," he finally grumbled after an expectant stare, and the Russian's face lit up with a pleasant, if not unnerving, smile, straightening up in what might have been satisfaction. Toris watched them patiently during this exchange, and then took charge with a long stride forward. Kept his eyes on Ludwig, though, the whole while. Staring him down without even trying.

"Come on," Toris said, walking off abruptly, and Ludwig sped after him, leery of being left alone with the other.

Didn't wanna be alone with that guy.

The building was warm, and well-lit. Ludwig felt stupid and out of place, walking beside of these glossy military men, in his torn, dirty clothes, his hair dark with dried mud and his boots caked with earth. People glanced at him as he passed, and he ducked his chin down. How _embarrassing_. Mercifully, the discomfort was short-lived. One quick elevator ride later, they emerged onto the top floor, which Ludwig realized with chagrin was only one very large, very elaborate room. It was the suite reserved for only those of power.

These men owned the world.

Toris turned the lock and pushed the door, holding it open with a rather sneering look. Ludwig tried not to look at him much as he was ushered through, and tried harder to focus on the room so that he wouldn't be sick.

Everything was perfectly in place under the high ceiling, lit up with a crystal chandelier, and in the parlor sat a desk, engraved with the Soviet coat of arms. Elegant all around, even down to the windowpanes. The army must have had this room especially reserved for tours of duty.

As Ludwig stood quietly, still and uncertain of himself in this massive room, the General passed him by and threw himself down heavily at the waiting desk. For the first time that night, Ludwig could see the hour on the clock above; already three in the morning. He could only hope, as he swayed back and forth wearily, that they would have a shred of mercy and just let him go to sleep.

Just wanted to lay down.

The Russian had other ideas, and waved his hand towards the empty chair in front of the desk.

"Sit," Toris said, and it was not a request, not a polite gesture.

A command. Like he was a damn dog.

Clenching the heavy coat over himself protectively, Ludwig fell down into the wooden chair without a word, because it was better to just do what they said, and the Russian leaned forward eagerly, intertwining his fingers on the table before him.

A moment of silence, as they stared at each other.

Ludwig was able to take him in for the first time, in the light, and shuddered.

Physically, he was fairly attractive. Late thirties, likely, with pale blond hair that nearly matched his own, kept neatly groomed and smoothed back. He was tall, very tall, and strongly built, with wide shoulders. Honestly, he was one of the biggest men that Ludwig had ever seen in his entire life. Grey eyes, framed by thick, pale lashes. A rather prominent nose, bumping up slightly in the middle as if it had been broken a few times, hawk-like. His skin was pale and clean, perhaps a bit weathered by years of exposure to harsh winds, and when he smiled, his teeth were straight and white, although his canines were too high up, sticking out a bit. Gilbert had always called them 'vampire teeth', and they made the Russian appear younger and more awkward than he was when he decided to show them. A little gawky, even. Certainly charming, though, that smile, when he chose to give it. Square jaw, wide and matching up so well with his cheeks. Well-dressed. Every detail in place. Fresh-faced and bathed in a subtle cologne. Absolutely immaculate, considering the circumstances and the hour.

A seemingly normal man at a glance, in the prime of his life, young and strong and virile. He _looked_ fine, so why, then, did something about him _feel_ so wrong?

Maybe it was the way he way he kept his hands loose and ready at his sides, or the way his shoulders were always squared. Maybe it was the impressive, almost too elaborate dress, or the way his constant, soft smiles seemed to be hiding a darker sentiment. Or perhaps it was his eyes, and how they gave away absolutely _nothing_ , whether he was smiling or not, and yet the pale depths were always churning. Overly emotional with his voice and motions, exuberant, and yet quite emotionless. Couldn't figure that out. Really couldn't.

And that was terrifying.

The atmosphere around him was overpowering. Overwhelming. _Terrifying_. One would do well to avoid finding themselves on his bad side.

But, Ludwig wondered as he sat, looking about anxiously, where exactly did _he_ find himself? He wasn't so sure anymore, about either of them.

Toris seemed less threatening than this man, but only by a hair. Toris, with his sharper nose and yet softer face, hair pulled back and cap held under his arm, shorter and slighter than the other but somehow less friendly. Darker hair, but lighter skin. Toris' eyes were deep blue, and far less calm than his superior's. Could actually get emotion from Toris, and, go figure, it was worse than nothing in someway. Somehow, for it all, Toris seemed rather more irritating than the other guy. The other guy was terrifying, but was at least smiling. Toris just kept on sneering at him, kept on looking down at him, and Ludwig wished that he could have just gotten rid of the both of them.

Didn't seem too important before, thinking he was going straight to Siberia, straight to jail. Now, sitting here in this room with these men, suddenly not knowing why he was here or what was going to happen...

He was scared. Anxious. Didn't know what they wanted.

And then he realized that it didn't matter what they wanted, not really. His fate had been sealed, either way, the second he had decided that Gilbert's freedom was more valuable than his own. Siberia, or a gunshot. Didn't matter.

He hung his head, and wondered if Gilbert had made it back safely. He needed a doctor. Ah, Erzsébet would take good care of him.

"What's your name?"

Gilbert would have done it for him.

"Name?"

He was sure of it.

Felt himself drifting.

He stared blankly at the desk, lost in his thoughts and so tired that he was already nodding off, and then the Russian reached out, snapping his fingers smartly in his face. Ludwig inhaled, and when he looked up, he was caught under a stern, impatient gaze.

" _Name_?" Toris repeated again, and when Ludwig looked over at him, dumbly, the silent warning in his eyes was clearly visible.

Ludwig longed to be defiant, even now, and keep his mouth shut, but Toris' look clearly advised against insubordination, and suddenly a strong hand had reached out and grabbed his chin, wrenching his head back. Warm, rough hands. Eyes bored into his own. The Russian's brow was ever lowering, and his iron grip was painful as their eyes met. Couldn't really stand the feel of him. Being touched by this man he didn't know.

Ludwig broke first, for the second time, and lowered his eyes.

Finally, he relented, and muttered, monotonously, "Ludwig."

The hand released him, and Ludwig kept his chin high, ignoring the ache proudly. Trying to, anyway. May not have looked as defiant as he felt.

"Last name?"

...didn't wanna give them Gilbert's.

"I don't know," he said.

Toris' eyes narrowed, a twitch of annoyance, but Ludwig was not leading, not really. Hell, if he knew his _real_ last name, and not just that familial fondness that Gilbert had christened him with, his life would have been a lot easier. Giving them Gilbert's last name, or Roderich's, would have felt too uncomfortable, and maybe dangerous.

Better to tell the truth. Couldn't change that he really truly didn't know.

"I don't know," he repeated, leaning back into his seat. "I was an orphan. I never knew my parents' names. You can put whatever you want. I don't care."

There was a short silence, as the Russian's pen scribbled and scratched against Toris' soft murmuring, and then the interrogation continued.

"Date of birth?"

"I don't _know_ ," he repeated again, and now his agitation was steadily growing. "I just said I don't know anything about my childhood."

Were they deaf?

"How old are you?"

"Twenty-three, I guess. Give or take a year."

Felt so irritable. His foot tapped furiously in aggravation. Or maybe nervousness. He felt _sick_. He just wanted to go home.

Wanted to sleep.

The Russian in front of him seemed immune to his rude tone, and merely continued to write with what seemed to be glee. He glanced up, occasionally, and the lopsided smile on his face was almost more unnerving than the silence. As if he knew something that Ludwig did not. Hated the feeling of being so damn vulnerable.

"Ludwig, ah?" The Russian pointed to himself, and said, cheerily, "Ivan."

...Ivan?

Ivan.

Ludwig barely contained the roll of his eyes that threatened to come, and looked away. Why were they exchanging names, anyway? Just send him off already. He had no desire to hold a conversation with this Russian, even less so to use his first name. Such informality was undesirable, and careless on his part.

'Hey, Ivan, how's it going, yeah, I'm Ludwig, and that was my brother Gilbert you just took away from me, you jerk. Have a good night.'

As _if._

Toris and Ivan. How strange.

A clearing of a throat, and the questions abruptly continued.

"Occupation?"

"Student," he lied.

How would they know, anyway?

"Place of birth?"

His patience was wearing thin.

"Munich, I think. I don't know."

"National Identification Number?"

"I don't..."

That was enough.

Scoffing, Ludwig looked around at them, as the anger rose up in his chest. "I don't _have_ one! How the hell many different ways can I say 'orphan'? Don't you understand? Huh? I've said it over and over. Why are you asking me all this?" he cried, as he leaned forward and slammed his palm on the desk. "I don't understand! Aren't you just going to send me to Siberia? Why are you asking me all of these questions? Just send me off already! _Ivan_."

Far from angered, the dumb Red before him actually seemed _glad_ , through everything else, that Ludwig had used his name. Hadn't understood the rant, but didn't seem to care, as long as Ludwig had used his name.

A bright smile.

Oh, god. Ludwig was somehow more terrified of that man when he was smiling.

Setting his pen down, the Russian leaned back, and observed him up and down with a strange, unsettling intensity. A gaze that seemed to be more of appreciation than curiosity. Ludwig did not like it, not that kind of look, and crossed his arms to say as much, feeling the first pricks of fear in his chest. Felt so damn vulnerable suddenly. Helpless. He didn't know exactly what was going to happen to him, but he suddenly hoped that it _would_ just be Siberia.

Why couldn't they have just shot him?

Suddenly, he would rather have gone to Siberia than stay another minute with this man.

Snorting, the General reached down and pulled open a drawer on his desk, and pulled out a half-empty bottle of vodka. Two small glasses followed, and he filled them to the brim, his smile never faltering. Speaking softly in Russian, he pushed one forward, studying Ludwig as though he were trying to solve a puzzle.

"A toast, to you."

Toris' voice had gone rather droll again, as if he were bored.

Ludwig refused the glass, looking about the room with a sudden, suffocating desperation. Could he get out of here? Not through the barred window. They were far too narrow anyhow, and he was too high up. Toris blocked the door, leaning against it with a gun at his waist. And the Russian, who now leaned back into his chair, propping his boots up on the desk very rudely as he raised his glass up, would be next to impossible to overpower. Huge guy like that—Ludwig could never have taken him down.

Toris and Ivan. His obstacles to freedom.

He felt frustrated, and when Toris saw him fidgeting in his chair, he shook his head, once. "Don't move," Toris quickly whispered in warning, and the Russian's eyes darted back and forth between them with amusement, as he downed the contents of his glass with one tilt of his head. He poured another, and murmured something, as he leered at Ludwig.

"It's rude," Toris said, sternly, "to refuse a drink in your honor."

As if Toris were trying to beat him over the head with the fact that not drinking would get old very fast.

Getting old, alright. This was getting _ridiculous_. And there was his headache again, returning with blinding force.

Hated them.

"I don't want to _drink_ ," Ludwig moaned, wearily, as he reached up to clench his dirty hair, "I just want to _sleep_. Please. Just let me sleep."

He bowed his head, and let his hands fall into his lap. Exhaustion took over. So tired, so tired, and now on top of that he suddenly wanted to cry, too.

A short conversation in Russian, crooning and murmuring, and Toris pushed himself off the door with a foot.

"Ah. Forgive my rudeness. Of course, you must be tired. I'll show you to the bedroom. This way."

Ludwig didn't hesitate to follow, and even if it was just a trick, he would not risk the chance that maybe he really would get to lay down in an actual bed. He stood up, wobbled, found his footing, and was led off.

Toris was as good as his word.

The bedroom was undoubtedly as well-furnished as the rest of the floor, but Ludwig took no notice. When he saw the bed, it felt like fuckin' heaven had crashed down around him, and he made a beeline towards it, and it took every strand of self-control within him to keep from throwing himself down. Every single effort he had then was used to keep from falling onto that bed.

Self-control, and the two men standing behind were another motivating factor.

He turned an impatient eye to them, but they were unmoving, and he finally muttered, "Was that _all_? Or am I allowed to lay down? I would like to sleep, if that's alright."

"So sleep," Toris shot back crankily, and, as the Russian sat in a nearby chair, holding his chin in his palm, Toris took his leave.

Clenching his jaw, Ludwig turned his agitation to the sitting Russian.

"Well?" he snapped, irritably and nervously. "Aren't you going, too?"

There was only silence, as the General smiled up at him and snorted, probably without comprehension.

Ludwig wanted him out, and said as much.

"Go on! Get outta here."

The Russian didn't move, didn't seem bothered by his tone, ever smirking, and instead pointed to the bed, whispering, " _Zasnite_."

The air was tense, frightening, but his exhaustion was too great. He had no more will to argue, and with a sigh he collapsed onto the bed, as filthy as he was, fully-clothed with his dirty boots still on his feet. He had little care to get comfortable, and had only the strength to send the leering Russian his dirtiest glare as he drifted into sleep.

The Russian stared at him serenely, and didn't stir from his perch, not even once.

The whole night.


	8. The Suicidal Clock

**Chapter 8**

**The Suicidal Clock**

Old times.

Faint memories. Distant days of melancholy.

Passing shadows.

Sometimes, when he had stood in front of the mirror on cold mornings, Ludwig had looked at his pale reflection, pushing away those whispers that had floated in his ears, and he had wondered if maybe there was something _wrong_ with him. If there had _always_ been something wrong with him. There had always been something wrong with Gilbert, sure, but...

Maybe there was something bad within him.

He wished sometimes when he was younger, even when Gilbert had embraced him in those brotherly moments and slung him over his shoulder with laughter, that he had been somewhere else. Somewhere he belonged. He'd never felt like he belonged. But Gilbert's promises of being together for eternity? That had always made it a lot easier.

The mornings when Gilbert had actually been in the house, when he hadn't spent the night out drunk in some bar, when he hadn't been passed out in some alley high on pills, but had actually been there in the bed, holding Ludwig to his chest as they slept. Those mornings had been the best. Those mornings had come far too soon.

Morning always came far too soon.

Like now.

Late fall was proving to be colder this year than usual, and already, snow was starting to drift down from the grey skies outside the hotel. Everything was still. Silent. There could be no better morning on which to sleep in, and what he would have given to be able to stay in bed for a little longer. Even if Gilbert wasn't in the bed beside of him this time.

Gilbert was gone.

A sudden voice intruded on his rest.

"Hey, wake up. Time to go."

Felt exhausted. Lethargic.

Grunting, Ludwig rolled over onto his side, seeking reprieve from the hand that was shaking him.

"Get up."

Why didn't they understand how _tired_ he was? Whoever the hell it was that was bothering him; Alfred maybe. The voice above could barely register in his exhausted mind, and he reached up, swatting the hand away irritably. Alfred, always intruding into his personal space.

"Get out of my room, you jerk," he muttered, blearily, and there was a sudden silence.

Then a sharp click filled the room, and something cool and hard suddenly pressed into his temple.

"I said _get up_. I'm not gonna tell you again."

Ludwig tensed up as his heart started to race. No matter how tired he was, how dazed, he knew damn well what it was against his head, the feel of steel, and he opened his eyes, looking over his shoulder warily.

Standing above him, clean and dressed for the call of duty, hair tied up and back beneath his cap, the Soviet army pin neatly on his breast, stood Toris. The gun he held meant business, cocked and ready, but his stance seemed only halfhearted. He almost looked...

"It's time to go," he repeated, and withdrew his firearm.

Defeated. Agitated. Restless.

Toris suddenly looked like he just didn't give a damn.

Heaving an inward sigh of relief at the removal of the barrel from his temple, Ludwig pulled himself upright at the waist, the adrenaline in his veins waking him up better than coffee ever could, and his whole body _ached_. Looking down, he saw that someone had put a blanket over him in the night. He had an idea of who, and glanced over, but the chair that had held the Russian was vacant.

Another thing to be grateful for.

"It's already late. We have to get going. You can sleep some more in the car."

"Oh," Ludwig rasped, a bit testily, "Why bother? Plenty of time to sleep when you're dead. I'm so looking forward to another day-trip with you and your charming friend."

Toris just snorted, looked him up and down very condescendingly, and drawled, "Good to see you're all rested up. You don't sound like a complete imbecile now when you speak. I was concerned we had arrested the mentally handicapped."

Dick.

Ludwig bit down his own insult, pulled himself to his feet, wobbling a little, and was led straight out of the hotel room and towards the elevator. Not even a shower first? Great. He wanted to die clean, at least, if that was what was gonna happen. He looked about, as they wound though the lobby. The Russian was nowhere to be seen. Good.

When they stepped outside, Ludwig saw the military vehicle parked in front, waiting. Looking around, at the city buildings, he tried to gauge not only where he was, but whether or not a mad dash would be possible. He looked this way and that, discreetly. There were many alleys.

Maybe.

Toris seemed to read his mind, and he could hear the click of the gun's hammer.

"Don't even," he warned, lowly. "Don't forget you're in the Eastern Bloc now. You won't get far."

Dammit.

Ludwig slouched in defeat, and when he walked forward and stepped inside the vehicle, the Russian (Ivan, he reminded himself) was sitting patiently, one arm thrown up on the windowsill. Ludwig bowed his head quickly, refusing to meet the pale eyes, and as the car started moving, he listened to the two speak quietly amongst themselves.

Their voices were soft and gentle and very smooth, and it surprised him a little that two voices like that could ever belong to hard-nosed Soviet military men. Strange. If he had closed his eyes, he would never even have connected those men with those voices.

He leaned his head against the window, as they crooned away. He didn't understand, but he was certain that he heard the word 'Dresden' a few times. So, he was in Dresden, then, maybe and they were driving to the border. And he would pass into Czechoslovakia, leaving Germany behind. He had never been outside his homeland in his entire life. East Germany had once been just Germany, hadn't it, and it was still home, even if it wasn't the same as the West. Hadn't ever left.

His stomach churned with nervousness. Fear. Homesickness. Where would he end up? What would come to pass? Would there be a forest where they were taking him? Would he have a view of trees or of concrete?

Thinking about it too much made him feel sick, and, when he felt eyes upon him, he looked up.

They were staring at him, coolly, and Toris asked, suddenly, "You don't have any papers on you, do you?"

Ludwig shook his head, and they resumed their conversation. After a moments consideration, he realized they were wondering if he had a passport. He felt his pulse race with a sudden jolt of hope; he could not pass the border without one. They would not let him through. They would turn him away. What were they going to do with him, then? Shoot him?

"Are you going to leave me here?" he wondered aloud, and Toris snorted.

"Hardly."

He furrowed his brow in agitation, and leaned back, crossing his arms above his chest. Damn, damn, damn. A stupid question, sure, but at least he had given it a go. There was nothing more frustrating than evasive half-answers, than the way they were talking without involving him, and the Russian was staring him down from the other seat with alarming intensity. Smiling away, as if everything were right in the world. Ludwig turned his head, and averted his eyes. How unnerving. Unpleasant. Couldn't stand looking at that man.

The border was ever nearing, and, as the minutes passed, he prepared himself for the inevitable, feeling a rise of thin hope in his chest. The first in years. He could see it now; they would stop the car, and ask everyone to present papers, and when Ludwig didn't have any they would escort him out and into the building. They would interrogate him, and he would give them nothing.

...and they would send him back from whence he came.

Simple as that. He couldn't cross.

_Wait for me._

Gilbert was waiting.

His palms began to sweat as the vehicle lurched to a halt at the gate. Glancing out the window, he could see the toll-booth, and the guard had stepped out and was approaching. The driver's window lowered ahead, and the border guard leaned in, with a greeting. His heart was hammering so fiercely that he was certain it would leap out of his chest, as the driver stuck papers through the window, chatting conversationally.

He waited.

With heavy footsteps, the border guard walked back towards them and looked through the rear window, and the Russian saluted him, smiling cheerily.

So close. Ludwig felt himself sitting up straight in his seat, ready for the inevitable. Feeling salvation on the horizon, Ludwig shifted his weight anxiously as he waited for the window to come down.

It did not.

And then the guard saluted back, and he could hear the creaking of the gate as it was lifted, and then, with a dizzying jolt of horror, he realized they were driving straight through.

Numbly, he looked over and met Toris' eyes, and Toris only lifted up his chin quite primly and said, "Immunity."

Of course. He had been foolish not to realize that a general of the Soviet military would not be subject to common searches. There was no need of papers for a marked military vehicle, not in these connected Red states. His hope fled, and was replaced with a horrible sense of dread. Terror. Beneath it all, resignation. There would be no escape. No way out. The thought of never seeing his friends again, of never seeing Gilbert again...

Regret. Remorse.

Gilbert was gone.

Ivan's knowing, satisfied smile only served to worsen his mood, and Ludwig fell into despondency, going back into space, barely noticing when the car stopped a short while later at the train station.

Numb and distant. Apathy settled in.

The loud station and the horns of the trains couldn't break through his fog. He was dazed. Some part of him had just stopped caring. His fate was no longer in his control, and he walked alongside them placidly when they left the vehicle behind and went into a private train car.

Outside, the snow was deepening.

No point in anything. He had signed over his life. His freedom. Better to just shut down and stop making himself sick over it. Didn't wanna go out like that, sick and crying and pleading. Apathy was better. He did not remember clearly stepping into the train, or sitting down, or leaning his head against the glass window, losing track of his environment.

Time passed.

The train chugged along. Towns passed. Blurry shapes outside the window that had been fogged with his breath.

Who knew how long he had been swimming through his thoughts, and he jumped when Toris suddenly said to him, "We're almost to Prague."

Coming back to earth, Ludwig lifted his head up and looked over, to where a neat Toris was sitting beside of him, only muttering in response a dumb, "Huh?"

Toris was watching him with that same strange interest, and he inclined his head to the window, face guarded and a bit tense. "Have you ever been to Prague?"

Ludwig shook his head.

"It's a beautiful city," Toris whispered, almost wistfully. "I've been twice. If you ever see it, in spring... You won't ever forget it. The clock tower, either."

The clock tower. He'd seen pictures of it books.

_'Hey, if we ever get some time together, I'll take ya down to Prague and get some pictures of ya in front of that big ol' clock! Promise, I miss ya so much.'_

He didn't feel like seeing Prague anymore. He just wanted to go home. Wanted Berlin, not Prague.

Toris turned his eyes to the snow drifting down beyond the window, and for a moment, he almost smiled. Almost; just a strange twitch of his lips that fell as quickly as it had come.

"The first time I went there was in the spring. I was there for almost a month. That was a long time ago. One of the best times of my life, I think. I can remember, sometimes."

There was something alarming in Toris' soft voice, a haunting loneliness and longing and maybe some kind of lunacy, and Ludwig might have shuddered a little. Toris was alarming enough on his own as it was; did he have to suddenly _sound_ so damn scary, too? As if Toris wasn't exactly _there_ at the moment.

Ludwig couldn't help but look over at the Russian in concern. Should they be speaking like this? Should Toris have been engaging him in conversation in front of that guy? But Ivan was asleep on the opposite seat, just as he had slept on the ride to Dresden, unhearing and unknowing, head rolling back and forth with the train.

Toris blabbered on.

"Of course, we're not stopping in Prague this time. We'll pass straight through. We're going to Brno. I haven't ever been there. I hope it's everything I expect it to be. I've heard a bit about it. Almost as good as Prague, or so they say."

Ludwig did not contribute much to this conversation, but he had the sense to nod his head along politely, and hell, he was pretty sure that Toris didn't really even notice him at all. He was speaking more to himself, it seemed, as though it had been years since Toris had had anyone to _really_ talk to, freely.

Ludwig, for all of his fogginess, felt a sudden unease, because something was certainly not right. Something was _wrong_. With Toris. With these men. With this whole situation. Something wasn't right. Something off. Odd. These guys; something wrong with 'em.

Catching his eye in a rare moment of personal connection, Toris asked, strangely, "Ludwig, right? Is that your name?"

Ludwig nodded.

"Have you ever been homesick, Ludwig? You ever left home for a long time?"

Not before.

He'd always felt strange, and like he hadn't belonged, but he hadn't ever felt homesick, because he had never known another home.

He was homesick now. The feeling was strange, and heartbreaking. An awful darkness.

"Yes," he muttered, and Toris seemed oddly _comforted_ , as though his confirmation was a relief. As if being homesick were something unacceptable and Toris was relieved someone else could actually feel that, too.

"If you ever get back home one day," Toris began, in a slow, frighteningly emotionless voice, "I hope...that it's the same for you as it was before. I hope nothing changes. I hope that it's still there. Home. Your home. I hope it's there for you."

Toris was scaring the hell out of him.

The atmosphere was dampening, darkening, and Ludwig returned his attention to the window, watching the snow fall with silence. There was nothing more he felt like saying. Didn't want to talk to Toris. Didn't want to engage in conversation. Didn't want Toris' strange behavior to unnerve him all the more. That crazy man.

Already felt sick as it was.

He zoned.

Time passed, Prague came and went, and still the Russian slept, head bobbing up and down with the motion of the train.

Ludwig was again resigned to let things go as they would, too disheartened to do much else and too apathetic to really care. The unease of Toris had faded, had fled from his veins.

At least until Toris started to speak again.

His voice barely above a whisper, Toris suddenly broke the silence with a forced, strangled, "You won't ever see Berlin again. You know that, don't you?"

Feeling his blood freeze in his veins, not at the words so much as that godawful tone, Ludwig snapped his head over, and the look of _blankness_ in Toris' eyes made him shiver. Looked so distant suddenly. So strange. Disconnected. What had made his mood shift so suddenly? As if Toris had suddenly checked out of the building. As if a light had been turned off, or a phone had been hung up.

Dial tone.

Toris just stared at him.

"If I were braver," Toris added, quietly, "I would do you a favor and just shoot you now. That would be best, I think. Shooting you."

Toris cocked his gun absently at his waist, brow low and head tilted a bit, and the jolt of adrenaline made Ludwig feel rather dizzy.

Cold-sweat.

"It would be better, maybe. I think it might be better if I shoot you."

Everything was cold.

Shoot him? Why would _Toris_ want to shoot him? This whole damn thing seemed to be the other man's game, not Toris', so he didn't get why Toris was so terrifying suddenly. Wished he knew what was going on. What was _with_ these guys.

"I don't understand," Ludwig finally breathed, absolutely petrified, hands clenching and unclenching absently in his shirt as he tried very hard not to fidget. Didn't want to look as scared as he was. Tried hard to meet Toris' eyes, then, hoping that maybe Toris would come back.

Eventually, he did, a minute or two later.

Suddenly, the strange nothing in Toris' eyes fled almost as quietly as it had come, a stiffening of Toris' stance, a heightening of his brow, and then he scoffed, shaking his head as his hand slowly lifted from his gun.

Relief.

"Never mind," Toris said, curtly, and fell back into the seat. "It doesn't matter. He'd probably kill me if I shot you, anyway."

Never _mind_? That was a pretty big goddamn 'never mind'.

Those words could not simply be forgotten, and Ludwig looked around all of a sudden, as the panic ever mounted, and sensed something terrible on the horizon. Something wrong.

Dark water.

These men.

The air of defeat and unpredictability and breathless sorrow that lingered over Toris was frightening. That look of being lost. Gone. And it made him wonder...

Would he end up like that? Blank and void of emotion, living only to have commands barked at him? To be a shadow? Toris only seemed to ever follow the other around, doing what he said without thought. Toris looked like he had almost forgotten how to have friendly interactions. How to be normal. Would he be just like Toris?

A rush of determination suddenly snuffed out the apathy that had been creeping up.

Never. He would do everything and anything in his power to avoid it. To be like that.

He couldn't just let this train take him away. Gilbert had always teased him for being so stubborn, so why now was he letting his depression lead him to oblivion? That wasn't who he was. He'd never given up before. Even through all of those awful times, those terrible stretches of darkness, even watching life pass him by and ignore him as it treated others well, he had never given up. He'd never swallowed the whole bottle of pills. Even if sometimes he had wanted to. He'd thought about it, but only ever for a few seconds, before the thought of someone else became stronger.

Alfred. Roderich. Couldn't do it; they'd be hurt, and disappointed. Gilbert had been on the other side of the wall, but it was only a wall. Walls could be torn down.

He hadn't quit. And he couldn't quit now. Because Gilbert was safe now. Gilbert was in the West. He had to get out.

Had to be a way.

Feeling the overwhelming desperation growing inside of him, Ludwig looked out the window; forests. Trees as far as the eye could see. He didn't know where they were, but it had only been an hour or so since they had passed through Prague, so civilization could not be that far away. A place like this. The snow was already a half meter or so high, covering the ground and weighing down the pine tree branches. Icicles hung from the side of the train. Bitterly cold. Anyone that got lost in the forest, in this weather, was done for. Death was a certainty, without a clear head and if help was not found soon.

So, then. How desperate _was_ he?

He looked over at Ivan, unreadable and menacing, even in sleep, and then at Toris, staring ahead listlessly, and knew. He knew. He would not go to Brno. Under any circumstances. Couldn't stay with these men. Wouldn't end up like them. Wouldn't let them break him down.

Gathering up his bravery, he pulled himself to his feet with zeal, trying to keep his wits about him. Toris leapt up with him, as if alarmed at his movement, hand flying down to his gun as he tensed, no doubt expecting a confrontation.

He would only have one chance. As they said, move it or lose it.

He was movin'.

Loosening his stance into one of non-threatening compliance, Ludwig turned to Toris and whispered, politely, "May I go to the restroom, please?"

The alarm dispersed, and Toris sighed in annoyance. Still, though, he kept his hand on his gun. Toris was strange, moody and crazy, but he wasn't stupid.

"Alright. Follow me."

He did, and when the door to the car was pushed opened, he observed his surroundings. Ivan was asleep, so that was one obstacle out of the way. And the door that would lead to the outside was tantalizingly close, only an arm's reach away. All he had to do was push it open, slip out, and find a good place to jump. Tuck and roll was his only option, and then he would disappear into the thick forest and walk until he found a town.

There was only one thing blocking him from the freedom he craved :

An armed and dangerous Toris.

Ludwig glanced over as they walked, and observed. Even though Toris had a gun and was pretty intimidating in uniform, he was shorter than Ludwig was, just a bit, and maybe if they were to scuffle Ludwig could come out on top. _Maybe_. Ludwig wasn't by any means powerful, was certainly not a fighter, but desperation was a very good motivator, and he had more to lose than Toris did, so his victory wasn't impossible. Impossible, no, but highly improbable. Ludwig was just a normal guy. Toris was a soldier, a trained military man, lethal without a weapon very likely, and Ludwig wasn't about to test his abilities and risk being knocked the hell out before he could get away. Better to be sneaky. Wouldn't have dared to take Toris on face to face. Wouldn't risk getting his ass kicked and being tied up to the seat.

"Hurry up."

Looking up, Ludwig saw that they had reached the restroom, and he took a breath to steady himself.

He looked over, gave Toris a glance, and then asked, as casually as he could, "Toris, right?"

Now.

A rather unpleasant curl of Toris' lip, as he griped, "Yeah."

Or never.

All he needed was one second of distraction.

"Are _you_ homesick, Toris?"

It was meant to rattle him, and it worked; Toris opened his mouth, lost his voice, and then, fatefully, he lowered his eyes, just for a second.

There it was. A moment was all he needed.

His long, arduous journey here had sapped his strength, lost in that endless death tunnel, but Ludwig still had enough left to do what needed to be done. Clenching his fist, he pulled his arm back and, bracing his feet, he sucker punched the unsuspecting Toris on the side of his head as hard as he could.

A dull thud.

The force of it knocked Toris backwards onto the floor, and, after a moment of panic, Ludwig heaved a sigh of relief when Toris didn't get back up. He was out cold, probably from hitting his head on the floor more than the punch itself.

A pain in his knuckles.

"Sorry," Ludwig spat down at Toris, quite dishonestly, as he stepped over the unconscious Lieutenant, and with fervor he yanked the door open and stepped out into the cold air. The change in temperature was dizzying, and he gripped the railing, staring into the snow-covered forest in temporary shock. God, it was colder than he had imagined. Freezing.

But he could not linger, and if Ivan or Toris woke up before he jumped, he was done for. Reaching out with a trembling hand, he grabbed the top of the gate that guarded the metal steps, and pulled it back.

A look down.

A churn of his stomach. The ground was moving by so quickly. He had to be careful. If he injured himself in the process then he would get nowhere.

He braced his legs, and tried to jump.

He froze up. Choked.

Damn! Harder than it looked.

"C'mon! You can do it," he urged himself, and, with an inhale and a shake of his head, he squinted his eyes shut, loosened his grip on the railing, took a step back, and leapt as far as he could.

A long, horrifying moment of being airborne.

_Go._

He connected with the ground with painful force, and cried out without meaning to, and only the soft snow kept his ribs safe from breakage. Rolling down the hill, though, he felt more like he was hitting the damn train itself.

Rolling.

Pain. Couldn't breathe.

After what felt like minutes, when he finally stopped rolling, he could only lay on his back, gasping for air that would not come. He had had the wind knocked out of him, and stared up at the grey sky as time slowed, too stunned to move. Shock. He could hear only a shrill whistle in his ears, and he felt himself drifting into sleep as the snow threatened to close in around him. Black crept in the corners of his vision. White skies.

Snow drifted down, hitting his eyelashes.

His back hurt.

_Get outta here!_

...he was really tired. Maybe he could go to sleep after all. Exhaustion. These past days had been the most physically and mentally exhausting of his life. Hadn't ever been so tired.

_GO!_

Out of nowhere, quite suddenly, his chest unclenched and air came back. The daze was broken. With a jolt, Ludwig sat up, gasping as air finally filled his lungs, and looked around. His hearing soon followed, and he looked up and watched the locomotive go by, loud and unstoppable, the screeching of wheels grinding the tracks filling the air. Another minute, and it was gone.

Gone.

The train was gone.

A breathless smile crept over his face, as he squinted in the white light of the snow, and with effort he finally hauled himself onto his feet. The plumes of white smoke hung above. In a second, the train was far away, almost out of sight within the trees. Gone.

He was free. He had won. And by god, it felt really fuckin' great.

Exhilaration.

Laughing to himself, he shook his head to clear it, and staggered forward, and even the pounding in his head could not dampen the burn of victory in his veins. Sore as hell, yeah, banged and bruised up, but he had won. He'd beaten them. Those men. It had been so easy! So easy. For all of that, for all of that torment and all of that crying, to think that getting away had been that easy.

The snow started to fall inside of his shoes. Ah! Cold. The sudden tingling of his feet as the snow melted inside of them dampened his exhilaration a bit.

Well.

Hadn't really won yet, not yet. Wouldn't truly win until he was back in Berlin. He was not out of danger yet, and when his body recovered from the shock of the jump, he looked about, picked a blind direction, and ran. He didn't care where he was going. Anywhere was better than staying put, so close to the tracks.

He plunged into the forest.

Pushing through the tree branches, he was confident that he would soon find the other end of the forest despite the coldness, and couldn't really keep the smile from lighting up his face. There was no brushy undergrowth to fight through, just old pines, and he passed easily in between the mighty, ancient trunks. Only a few branches here and there, and the rest was trudging through the snow.

He was confident. In this modern world, forests weren't vast enough for someone to get lost in for so long that they died. Right?

The snow was getting higher. And the trees were still numerous. Shielding his eyes with his hand, Ludwig looked up at the sky. White, as far as he could see. There was no sign that it was going to stop. It was likely to snow all day and all night. He had to hurry. Lowering his head and squinting, he carried on, trying his best to keep walking straight. Getting turned around would be an enormous problem. Everything looked exactly the same, though. All the trees were the same. He used his footprints as a guide when things got confusing.

The wind was picking up.

His smile waned, after a while, and the cold was creeping up on him. The adrenaline that had kept him warm had already run its course, and now he shivered as his fingers began to numb.

Ah, hell. Maybe it had been _too_ easy.

He walked. For how long, he couldn't say. Maybe hours, yet still the trees refused to thin, and he felt the first prick of anxiety in his chest. He had underestimated this forest's girth. Was taking longer than he had imagined. Damn. Shoulda just walked along the railroad and into the next town. Could have risked it, really, because he could have easily darted into the trees should someone have come back looking for him. Stupid.

Tucking his hands under his armpits in a desperate attempt to protect them, he slowed to a halt, panting heavily as the icy air stung his lungs.

He was so cold.

He was not dressed for this weather, gloveless and hatless, and he had foolishly left the Russian's coat in the train. As he wrapped his arms around his body in vain, he wondered if he had made a mistake. It was so much colder than he had anticipated, there were no villages in sight, and his shirt was so thin he may as well have been wearing paper. Lately, it seemed he had been just leaping without looking. Hadn't ever been like that before.

He took a great, stinging breath, and walked on.

Two hours. Three. Four.

He stopped again. He could barely breathe. His lungs felt like they were burning. Standing, bent over at the waist and hands beneath his arms, he stared down at the white snow, and really started to panic. Felt tired again. Sleepy. That wasn't good. He was in trouble, alright. He needed to keep moving. Stopping would only bring the cold on faster. So tired. Couldn't even catch a breather. Had no goddamn luck at all, none.

All he had wanted was to see Gilbert. Was that so much?

He started walking again, determined, but quickly stopped, looking down with a furrowed brow.

With alarm, he realized that he could not feel his legs, and as he tried to force himself on, his gait was awkward and unsteady, as he struggled to stay standing. Unbalance. He could only walk a few steps before he had to stop yet again, and his shivering became uncontrollable. Looking around, helplessly, he was forced to face the obvious fact; his body was shutting down from cold.

Yeah. Great.

Looking up at the sky, he could see the worst outcome :

Night.

The night was approaching. Quickly. The white skies had turned dark grey.

And the snow just kept coming.

Bending at his waist, he rested his hands on his knees as he gathered himself, and the realization crept over him that he would _not_ get out of this forest before he froze to death. There was no way he'd last the night. Not dressed like this. Hadn't been prepared. His fingers were red and numb. He could not feel his face. His feet ached dully in his wet shoes. Snow covered his shoulders and eyelashes, and his hair stuck firmly to his scalp with the weight of the ice that was glazing it.

Cold.

Gilbert was waiting for him, though, and it was only crazy desperation that forced him to wobble forward. He tried to go on, as best he could. Maybe a half hour. Maybe an hour. Hell. Maybe ten minutes. Could been five minutes, even, but it felt like decades.

He could barely see for the snow, and fell short when a sudden shadow loomed over him, even in the darkness.

He looked up, and felt his breath leave him.

A great, dead tree stood before him, tall and dark and imposing, wide branches spreading out into the sky like craggy hands. A gallows tree, looked like. His bleary, unfocused mind was pretty sure that he had wound up in some bad fairytale.

Didn't look like he'd see a happy ending.

It was surely an omen, that horrible tree, and as his strength left him for good, he fell to his knees before it, overwhelmed with a sudden urge to sleep. Couldn't walk anymore. He was spent. Nothing left. He didn't fight it, and laid down in the snow, resting his face against one of the huge roots that jutted from the ground. With a sigh, he closed his eyes. This was, after all, as good a place to lie down and die as any. Looked poetic, at any rate. Yeah, that was really going to be comforting to Gilbert, alright, sure was. 'My little brother died, but at least he chose an awesome place to do it!' Hardly.

Oh, Gilbert. He had tried. He had failed. Again.

_You promised._

...sorry.

As light-headedness overtook him, Ludwig pictured his brother's face, and felt, if not peaceful, then at least satisfied. He had saved Gilbert. That was enough. Couldn't have everything. Saving Gilbert was enough. A worthwhile use of the life of a nobody.

As he drifted into the darkness over the course of the next few hours, the soft snow covering his fallen body, he could swear that, beyond his delirious thoughts, he heard something crunching across the ground.

Footsteps? Maybe just wildlife. Coming to see how long it would take for him to die.

Twigs snapping beneath the snow. The tree branches swayed.

Then someone whispered, voice drifting eerily in the wind, but he was too far gone to open his eyes to see who it was. He didn't really care. He had nothing left. Exhaling the last of his strength, he let the dark take over as a gentle voice hovered above his consciousness. He could only pray, absurdly, that it was Gilbert, coming to his rescue like a big brother should, even if he never had before.

Dizziness.

" _Byednyazhka_..."

...Gilbert?

Warm hands ran over his face and then engulfed him, and as he was lifted up into the air, he slipped away, and time was lost.

Freezing.

_Together._


	9. Under the Veil

**Chapter 9**

**Under the Veil**

Cold.

_I'm waiting for you._

Everything was so cold.

_Hey, Ludwig, you comin' or not?_

Lethargy. He felt like he was pushing his way through a field of cotton. His chest ached. Dots of light. Whooshing in his ears. Ringing.

_Get up._

His head swam, and for a delirious moment, he could swear that Gilbert was calling out for him.

_Come on!_

Why? Was he late for something? And why was it was _so_ cold? Merciless and absolutely numbing. Couldn't feel his feet. His hands were stiff. What had he gotten himself into? Where was Gilbert when Ludwig really needed him? Gilbert had always had excuses about why he could never be there. Why he went out, instead of staying home.

Gilbert was never there when Ludwig needed him.

He missed those mornings when Gilbert had actually been around. Few and far between. Must have been here now; Ludwig could hear him.

Wanted to answer him.

His fingers twitched, in a subconscious effort to seek Gilbert out, but nothing within him could really seem to come around.

Took him a long time to find his voice to mutter, weakly, "Gilbert... I can't wake up."

Couldn't. He couldn't seem to open his eyes, no matter how hard he tried. He had never felt more exhausted in his entire life. Every muscle ached with a dull throb, and he didn't have the strength even to shiver. Just twitches, every so often, random jerks of limbs without him controlling it. It hurt to breathe. Hurt to think.

Hurt.

This might have been what dying felt like. At least Gilbert had come, for once, to see him across that river. He wasn't alone. He could feel it.

Reaching up with great effort, still well in the depths of sleep, Ludwig ran his fingers through his hair, wincing as the pain blazed up. His head threatened to split open at any moment, and even the slightest movement was agonizing. Could barely feel his fingers. His hand fell still beside his head, too weak to go back down any farther. He was going to vomit.

_See? I told you that we would be together..._

What had he done to feel this way? Gilbert was to blame, no doubt. He was probably just hung over. Maybe Gilbert had snuck him one of those pills when he hadn't been looking. God knew he'd tried that before. Successful this time, maybe. Felt so out of it. Dizzy, despite laying completely inert.

Someone was whispering. Was it Gilbert?

_Forever._

The tantalizing smell of coffee was suddenly upon him, warm and comforting and familiar. He turned his head wearily, as a heavy movement shifted the covers beside him, and then a familiar voice crooned, near his ear, _'_ You're _sleeping in? What's the world coming to_?'

With more effort than he'd ever needed in his life, Ludwig somehow managed to open his eyes.

Exhaustion crept up, even after that small effort, and when Ludwig somehow rolled his head over to the side, there Gilbert sat, watching over him with an unusually serene expression. Oh, Gilbert. What a beautiful sight he was, despite it all. Missed him so much when he was gone. So much. Wished Gilbert would have stayed by his side every second of every day.

Gilbert stared down at him, and Ludwig couldn't really seem to get enough of the sight of him, even though Gilbert seemed strangely pale and vague, like they were separated by a mist. Far away somehow, even though he was sitting right there. Gilbert was smiling, eyes calm and stance loose. In a good mood. Ludwig loved it when Gilbert was calm. When he wasn't drunk. When he was a (somewhat) good guy.

Smiling weakly, despite the hammering pain behind his forehead, Ludwig raised his arm, and reached out.

"What have you done to me?" he murmured, huskily. "I never drink this much."

_'Well_ ,' Gilbert murmured, resting a hand upon Ludwig's face and stroking his cheek gently, _'Good parties require sacrifice, don't they_?'

"I don't party," he retorted, weakly, and Gilbert just snorted.

_'Yeah. Yeah, I know_.'

A squirm, as Ludwig tried to get closer to Gilbert without making his head hurt more than it already was.

"Lay down with me."

_'Sorry, Ludwig. I can't. I gotta go_."

Go? Gilbert always had to go. Always gone, somewhere.

He leaned into the warmth of Gilbert's hand (oh, _god_ , it felt so good after so long), too tired to be mad and closing his eyes in exhaustion, but the cold the air around him was becoming increasingly unbearable.

_You shouldn't drink so much, Gilbert._

_'Ludwig. I_ love _you. Always did_.'

The words were garbled and so soft that he could barely hear them, and he clung desperately to the hand next to him, for any kind of warmth. Never had he known such cold.

"Did you turn the heat off, Gilbert?" he asked, furrowing his brow as the pain burned white, "It's so cold."

Gilbert didn't respond, a heavy silence hanging above, and Ludwig could feel himself drifting further into agony as the gentle hand moved from his face and ran through his hair, soothingly. The ache in his body was ever intensifying, and he felt a wave of light-headedness come over him.

Beyond the dizziness, a sense of unease. Anxiety. Something was out of order, something was wrong, something was off, and Gilbert suddenly spoke gently to him again, close to his ear, but it sounded strange this time, and Ludwig couldn't understand.

Pain, roaring up. This headache was more than anything he had ever experienced, and even the soft voice beside of him was causing him pain.

Felt like he was dying, he could swear it, and with every second that passed he could feel himself slipping down the side of the cliff. Could barely breathe. Felt like his lungs were full of glass. He wasn't sure if he was going to vomit, pass out, cry, or all three. Felt so bad, _so_ bad, hadn't ever felt this bad in his entire life, not like _this_ —

"Gilbert, _please_ , can you get me some medicine?" he pleaded, in a high-pitched whine that sounded more like a wounded dog, and there was a short silence before that soft voice answered, and even through his haze Ludwig could hear the strange, accented notes.

"Not to move, eh? Ah, you have...fever?"

Could barely even understand it, the accent was so thick. That voice didn't belong to Gilbert.

Unease tuned into outright terror.

It scared him half to death, that damn voice, and in a panic Ludwig opened his eyes and tried to bolt upright. But the movement was too fast for his broken body, and his vision turned completely black as his head swam with fire, and he stopped short as the wooziness took him down. The whooshing in his ears came back, and then suddenly he was laying back down again without him controlling it. Fuckin' passed out, at just trying to sit up.

That was terrifying.

There would be no desperado run right now, not now, couldn't even sit up, could he, could barely see at all, and Ludwig could only rest his head back and see the stars across his vision, groaning his pain, and suddenly gloved hands cupped his face.

"I study more the German, yeah? Understand?"

Barely.

That voice.

He stayed silent, too afraid and too pained to answer. Felt nauseous. So dizzy. Trembling, from cold and exhaustion. His face was damp from a cold-sweat. The hands were suddenly gone from his face, and a cool towel dabbed at his forehead.

That voice...

Ludwig tried again to open his eyes, although he was afraid of what he might see, and this time his vision cleared enough for him to make out his surroundings, blurry and faint though it was. Took a minute for his brain to react. The room he was in was unfamiliar, painted a dark shade of dreary burgundy that lively Gilbert would have never allowed in his home. The window was covered with thick curtains; cream. No sunlight streamed through. He could see his breath in the air. Inside? The blankets were a bland cream too, and he looked over to his other side, and the large figure that was hovering above him slowly came into focus.

It was not Gilbert.

"Feeling...okay?"

It was not Alfred.

"I was, ah, how you say...worry?"

It was not Roderich.

"You are very sick."

Someone else.

Stranger.

Ludwig tilted his head upward, caught under a pair of pale grey eyes that did not seem the least concerned, despite their owner's declaration, and immediately shuddered. He knew those eyes. Where from?

The panic kept on mounting, but he couldn't move. Trapped.

The man above was smiling eagerly, broad and tall, and then gentle hands were running down his face again; the gloves on his hands were soft, and warm. Ludwig tried to pull back from the unwelcome touch, and regretted it immediately. A sudden coughing fit, coming from nowhere, overtook him. He couldn't breathe.

The man above reached down, and started to thump his back, gently.

"Is okay! I get more...medicine? Yeah?"

His whole body shook with the force of rattling coughs. Pain. Agony. No air.

And the whole time, the gentle hands stayed upon him.

Finally, after long, painful minutes, the fit subsided, and the hands were on his face, one lifting his chin and the other putting something towards his mouth. A pill, under his tongue, and somehow he managed to swallow it. Felt like the hardest thing he had ever done. He was _so_ sore. Resting his head back on the pillow, on the verge of slipping away, he found his voice after a struggle, and looked upwards.

"Where am I?" he asked, and the man brushed his hair out of his eyes with almost loving attentiveness. How was that somehow so scary, then?

A hesitation, as if the man were struggling to understand the words and then form a reply. Then, a barely comprehensible answer.

"Home."

Home? Felt like he hadn't been home in years; Gilbert had been gone. Not home without Gilbert.

Gilbert.

"What's wrong with me?" he heard himself whining, against the ache and the thickness of his throat, "What happened?"

A short silence, another hesitation, another slow attempt to understand.

"You remember, ah—" a sudden frustrated curse in another language " **—** nothing?"

What should he remember? So many voices were swimming in his ears. So many thoughts. Couldn't focus.

Where was Gilbert? Something wasn't right.

Whispers.

Head was killing him, and Gilbert wasn't here like he should have been. Always gone.

_Goodbye, brother._

A burst of blinding pain.

A screech in his mind, a light coming on, and he squinted his eyes as a terrible flood of memories came rushing back with enough force to make his chest hurt, and he remembered _everything_. Everything. The fog cleared, and he could see. The _Stasi_ office in the distance, being so tired as Gilbert cried and pleaded, a horrible sense of hopelessness, the car ride to the border, the foolhardy jump, the trek through the snow, how he had been so mercilessly cold, his legs numb as he tried to find help, the great dead tree he had fallen before, the gnawing regret of a past life as he had drifted into darkness.

Ivan. That name. That man.

It was Ivan.

He'd been caught. He'd found someone in the forest, alright, but not the person he had wanted. Caught. Trapped, lost, helpless. Hopeless. He felt the nausea wash over him, above the exhaustion, and closed his eyes in despair as he tried hard not to burst into tears right there under Ivan's hand. _Oh_. He would rather have died out there in the snow than to be recaptured.

Ivan's fingers ran gently over his hair.

Couldn't escape. Couldn't ever escape.

"Don't touch me," Ludwig moaned, voice barely above a whisper, unable to move, and he hated the feeling of helplessness.

He couldn't move.

No choice but to sit there and let Ivan do whatever the hell he would.

The Russian lingering above him didn't respond, maybe not even understanding what Ludwig had said to him, continuing to run his hands through Ludwig's hair, as though he had never touched another human being before. Ludwig knew that it was probably only curiosity derived from him being a West German who had found himself somewhere he should not be, after this whole ordeal, but it was beyond disturbing nonetheless.

Somehow, Ivan's gentle motions were more alarming than blows. A Red General like that, a man with such power, such rank, sitting here and all but petting some man he had randomly kidnapped, for lack of better word.

Terrifying.

Ludwig began to shiver, as the bitter cold settled in even through the blanket. His forehead was covered with a cold sweat again, so soon after Ivan had wiped it dry. His lungs felt like they were full of water. They crackled whenever he took a breath. Sickness. He had contracted some kind of illness out there in the snow, he realized, as the delirium of fever controlled his disjointed mind. Why he felt so awful. And those damn fingers in his hair made him want to cry all the more, from sheer frustration. He couldn't stop them. Couldn't get rid of them. Couldn't shake them.

Go away.

Just wanted Ivan to go away.

"Please leave me _alone_ ," he whimpered, and Ivan finally fell back into a chair that resided at the side of the bed. Leaning back, Ivan smiled over at him, and nodded, pulling a book from the end table onto his lap.

Didn't leave the room, like Ludwig had meant, but at least he wasn't touching him anymore.

"Okay. You to sleep, now. I to study more, _da_?"

"Fine," he conceded, too exhausted to argue, and closed his eyes. Falling asleep had never been so easy, as the Russian's smooth voice rose softly above the silence as he studied aloud.

When he was better, if he ever got better, perhaps he could try to escape again. If not, he would find means to end it all himself, before the Russian could.

With Gilbert's face in his mind, he went out.

* * *

Whispering.

Time passed.

Days. Weeks. Ludwig passed every waking second in a great blur, and the only instances he remembered were when his fever mercifully broke and he came into the realm of consciousness. He was always cold.

Always cold. But never alone.

He could not recall ever seeing any sunlight coming in through the windows, but no matter what time of day he awoke to, he was never alone.

If he was strong enough, and lucid enough, sometimes Ludwig would lift his head, and see that Toris was there, leaning in the corner and staring off into space with a blank expression, daydreaming no doubt. Sometimes there was a woman who would lean over him and tend to his fever with motherly gentleness. Other times there was a young man, a kid, curious and prying.

No matter who was there, _always_ Ivan sat off to the side of the bed, staring at him, book in hand. Even in the dead of night, he would open his eyes and find that he was being watched.

Did Ivan not sleep?

Whenever Ludwig was awake, Ivan would set the book down upon the end table and come over, sitting on the edge of the bed and reaching out to run his fingers through Ludwig's hair in what he might have thought was a soothing manner. Hardly. Every time, Ludwig just shuddered.

He could hear Ivan talking to him, but he did not have the strength to understand nor speak back, and only turned away from that awful gaze, and fell back into delirium.

He lost track of the day, of the month, of where he was and why, his unfocused mind unable to ponder even the simplest of quandaries. He had never been this sick in his life, and such disorientation was new to him. Felt strange. Vulnerable as could be. Sometimes, he wondered if he would even pull through this, for the way he felt. Illness overtook even the strongest, the youngest. Young people got sick and died, too.

But even as his muddled thoughts and dreams took him into the depths of lunacy, those gloved hands continued to touch obsessively at his hair and face, no matter the time of day. It was intrusive, and unnerving. Frightening.

For it all, though, each time he came to he seemed to improve, just a bit.

One day, he woke up, and felt his lungs free of liquid. He could breathe again. Soon after, the coughing fits stopped. More days passed before he began to feel the first moments of real clarity.

Hours, dragging by.

One day, couldn't say how long it had been, Ludwig woke up, and felt lucid. Alert, if only barely. Clarity. He opened his eyes, and really _saw_ his surroundings. He didn't know what time of day it was, but the dim light hinted that it was either daybreak or dusk. Both were equally cold around here, it seemed. As he expected, Ivan was hanging over him, pale eyes lidded thoughtfully as he sat on the edge of the bed and flipped through a book. They sat in silence for a moment, and Ludwig could only wait for Ivan to notice that he was awake.

It didn't take long.

Glancing over, just to check, Ivan happened to catch his gaze, and then broke into a smile.

"Awake?"

Ludwig closed his eyes and braced himself, knowing Ivan would be upon him in a second. He was, as usual, those huge hands running over his hair as always. And, as always, Ludwig could only shudder, helpless to do much about it.

"Feel better, yeah?" came the soft voice from above, and Ludwig nodded, weakly.

Already, he felt like going back to sleep. Such small movements took such effort.

Ivan moved suddenly, reaching down, and with ease he lifted Ludwig's head up off the pillow.

"Drink," he ordered, and there was suddenly a cool glass pressed against his lips. He obeyed, assuming it was water, but as soon as the liquid hit the back of his throat, the burn told him otherwise. It was bitter, but Ivan put his hand over his mouth so that he would not spit it out. "Drink."

He did. It was warm vodka, he knew, and the terrible taste of it made him want to retch. Sick as he was, the last thing he wanted was alcohol. It was with effort that he finally put it all back, not having much of a choice in the matter, and Ivan lowered him back down, gingerly.

"Vodka helps when you are sick. Makes you stronger, yeah?" He laughed, a strange, high-pitched sound, almost a damn chirp, that was more unnerving than his speech, and leaned in. "My German is better, huh? I studied."

It was better, _much_ better.

Made him wonder...

"How long was I out?" Ludwig moaned, and his voice was cracked and hoarse from disuse, throat scratchy and sore.

Ivan's hand ran up and down his cheek, absently.

Always touching. Some people were just like that, yeah, but it was an utterly horrifying situation all the same. Stuck in bed, trapped in a strange land, held prisoner against his will, with this man, this strange, frightening man. This man, with the power to have the world beneath his feet, who hovered over him constantly, always touching him without consent. A soldier, a good ten or fifteen years older than he was, acting so bizarrely around him. Made his stomach twist.

It was almost as if...

Well. Didn't even want to think about _that_.

Ivan smiled down at him, and whispered, thoughtfully, "Oh, it must be...four weeks." He allowed Ludwig only a split second to digest this information, and then he had leaned back in, murmuring, again, "My German is better, right? I studied while you sleep."

It was a simple question; a harmless search for approval. So how was he still so damn frightening, even when smiling? He stared down at Ludwig with alarming intensity, and Ludwig could only nod, once, heart racing with more than just fever. Ivan paused for a moment, as though appraising his honesty, and his brows raised in apparent satisfaction.

What would have happened, Ludwig wondered, if he had replied in the negative? If he had denied the compliment Ivan sought?

He could only imagine.

As an afterthought, Ludwig added, "It's...very good."

For once, his politeness worked in his favor.

Ivan's whirling eyes calmed, a little, his face softened, and Ivan pulled himself to his feet. "Sleep," he whispered, as he backed to the door. "I have to get back to work. Now that you are, ah, awake, I think you can be alone, no?"

By awake, Ivan had no doubt meant conscious, but didn't know the word to say so.

Ludwig nodded, even though, truthfully, he did not want to be alone. Not here. Didn't even know where the hell he was. Didn't want to be alone, but didn't want to be with Ivan, either. Not when he was barely hovering over the edge of consciousness, tottering on the fine line of delirium, not when everything here was so different, and the air was cold and stale and the room was too dark, and he didn't know where he _was_. Didn't matter, in the end; with a click of the door Ivan was gone, and Ludwig was alone. Without the strength even to stand, or to sit up, he could only stare up at the ceiling, and wish that he would fall asleep and dream again.

Gilbert's voice had been so comforting, even if it had been only a hallucination.

He'd rather dream.

_I'll take care of you, Lutz. I always will._

He wondered if Gilbert was laying somewhere now, thinking of him.

He was thinking of Gilbert.

* * *

The clock was always ticking.

Constantly. Tick tock.

Time never seemed to stop, no matter how much he wanted it to. The minutes kept on ticking by. He glanced up at the clock on occasion, and wished he could make it fall off the wall just by thinking about it. No matter how hard he tried, it stayed put.

For some strange reason, even though there was a clock on the wall, there was no keeping track of time in this constantly veiled world. Or maybe it was his head that was veiled. He _saw_ the clock, but his mind couldn't really comprehend it. Maybe it had been hours since Ivan had left. Maybe it had been minutes. Being trapped in this bed for so long was making him a little crazy.

This was the first day he had woken up and felt 'good'. Awake, really awake, for the first time.

And then there was coffee. He could swear he smelled coffee. Or was it just his mind playing tricks on him again? He was always drifting off into sleep, it seemed.

There was a shuffle through the room, a clatter of porcelain on the end table, and, gathering himself for the day ahead, Ludwig opened his eyes.

"Rise and shine, sleeping beauty," came a drawled, bored voice, and he jumped in surprise when he realized that a pair of eyes were boring into his own, a mere breath away. Pulling back so fast that his ribs ached with the effort, heart racing, Ludwig nearly toppled off the edge of the bed in terror.

A snort.

"Calm down, won't you," the voice said, and when Ludwig's overloaded mind finally woke up, he saw that it was not Ivan that was hanging over him.

It was Toris.

He did not look pleased. Actually, Toris looked exceedingly irritated.

They watched each other in a moment of intensity, and then Toris raised a brow, inclining his head in Ludwig's direction.

"Bacterial pneumonia," he suddenly said, breaking the silence, and he reached into his pocket and pulled out a bottle of pills, tossing them onto the bed with swift indifference. "You nearly died, you know. Though, I can't say whether you got pneumonia from the snow or from the shitty hospital when they were treating you for hypothermia. Either way. You're lucky."

Lucky? A strong word.

Resting back onto the pillows, eyes narrowed in annoyance and pain as his head began to pound, Ludwig sent Toris an equally distasteful look, grabbing up the bottle and clutching it in his hands. This medicine was the only thing that had kept him alive, and he was damn well going to finish the bottle. Needed his strength at full force to get the hell out of here when the time came.

The stare between them was tense. Awkward.

Made more so when Toris turned his eyes back to the coffee, face so lofty, and said, "I won't lie. I was hoping you would die. It would be better for everyone."

That may have been, but Ludwig scoffed all the same and muttered, bitterly, "Likewise."

Tilting his head to the side, Toris watched him once more, thoughtfully, and then nodded his head to the counter. "I brought you some coffee. I hope you like sugar."

Ludwig didn't, not much, but his brow came up nonetheless, if only because he was fucking freezing and coffee sounded like something close to heaven right about then. Didn't really trust Toris too much, honestly, but he'd have drank it anyway, even if Toris had admitted to poisoning it. Toris seemed to want him dead. Had no shame or hesitation in voicing it. Ludwig just wished he knew _why_.

"Thanks," he finally grumbled, and Toris walked backwards and leaned against the wall, and it was then that Ludwig noticed for the first time that Toris' left arm was up in a sling.

Well. He tried to think back on events past; he hadn't done that, had he? He had only knocked Toris on the side of the head, and he had not fallen with nearly enough force to break his arm. Or had he?

Ah. Who cared?

Toris saw his wandering gaze, and gave a half-smile, rolling his shoulder indifferently.

"I let you get away," was his simple explanation, and Ludwig's first feeling was that of alarm, because the unspoken conclusion was that Ivan had been the one who had caused the injury, then he felt something like fear, because Toris said it so casually that it did not appear to be anything out of the ordinary, and, lastly, he felt a bit of shame, because it had been _his_ escape that had brought down such punishment upon Toris.

Shame?

Wait a minute. Nope. No shame. Gone like the wind, in a blink. Toris had just declared, after all, that he very much wished Ludwig had died. Kinda wished he _had_ been the one to break Toris' damn arm. Wouldn't apologize, that was for sure. None of this was _his_ fault. He hadn't asked to be dragged out into the heart of the Eastern Bloc. All they had had to do was arrest him and ship him off. That had been the deal. Not all of this.

Still, he cast one more glance at Toris' arm, curiosity mostly, and Toris shrugged his shoulder with what looked like a leer.

"What? I've had worse than this. This is why you're born with two arms."

Ludwig scoffed once more. Toris was hardly bothered, and so Ludwig wasn't either. Didn't care much about what happened to Toris, in the end, as long as he could get out of here. Toris was only one more obstacle. Something to remove.

Taking the coffee mug in his hand, Ludwig stared down at the steaming black liquid and asked, tentatively, "Where are we?"

"Home." He could feel Toris' eyes upon him, but he did not care to meet his gaze. "Ivan cut his tour short after that little, ah...incident. From Brno, he had the train redirected straight back home."

"And _where_ ," Ludwig murmured, wincing when the coffee hit his tongue, "is home?"

Far too sweet, but warm.

"Mirny."

Oh, for fuck's sake, Toris. What an asshole.

He didn't know the town, obviously, and wondered aloud, crankily, "And _where_ exactly is Mirny?"

"A new town," Toris supplied, patiently if not quite condescendingly, "founded around a diamond mine discovered in Eastern Siberia."

Siberia.

So, he realized with a shudder, he really _had_ been sent to Siberia. His prison was far more elegant than the concrete cell he had originally imagined, but a prison all the same. For now.

"This is Ivan's private residence, when he's not on call. This is where you'll spend most of your time. This will be your room, I suppose. I can't recommend leaving it unless absolutely necessary. And the town is _very_ small; one post office. One doctor. One _KGB_ office. One prison. And everyone knows the general, so I can't recommend going out _there_ , either. Also, I wouldn't recommend..."

Ludwig was barely listening. Mind whirring away. Because even the strongest prisons could sometimes have their weaknesses, and as long as he kept his wits about him and took a good care of his surroundings, maybe—

Maybe.

Toris quickly dashed any hope of future escapes with his next words, which broke through Ludwig's haze like a knife.

"—but, to give you a sense of distance, allow me to put it this way: we are almost ten thousand kilometers from Moscow. Ten days on the train. A few days to _reach_ the train, to begin with. And if you try to run now, you'll find nothing but forests and snow for five thousand kilometers. It's winter, so expect extreme sub-zero temperatures on good days. Nothing over minus thirty until February. If you're lucky. Last year we actually reached minus seventy! That was a fun month."

Nausea.

Seeing his sudden paleness, Toris' look turned grim, and he shook his head, more to himself.

"Germans were never meant to live in this winter. You shouldn't be here. You'll wish you in a damn gulag before long. Well. Too late now, I guess. Shoulda died, like I said."

Toris was right; he shouldn't be here. None of this was right.

Escape certainly looked beyond bleak, and Ludwig set his mug down as his hands began to tremble. The thought alone of being in this godforsaken land, where something as simple as stepping outside could become a death sentence, was far beyond overwhelming. It had sounded noble and honorable, certainly, when he had been cornered, with Gilbert's pleas behind him, but now that he was actually here...

He did not know how long he would last.

Stupid Gilbert, that stupid, stupid man, that impatient, miserable son of a bitch—

Couldn't have just waited, and now Ludwig sat here in the middle of nowhere. Alone.

A silence, and then a sigh, and suddenly Toris had settled down on the edge of the bed, and when Ludwig managed to meet his eyes, he could see that Toris' stern face had softened. Just a little.

"Listen," Toris began, quietly, "You'll get used to it pretty fast. It's not so bad out here, once you get used to it. Just do what you're told and don't talk back and you'll do fine. You didn't die, so you gotta make the best of it. You'll be fine. You'll see."

He felt sick. He was going to vomit, he was sure of it.

Could barely talk, but Ludwig somehow managed to utter, in a deep, miserable whisper, "What do you mean? I'll be fine. What do you mean?"

No answer.

His head was hurting more than ever, and when Toris shook his head and stood and walked to the door, Ludwig said after him, "But I still don't understand. I don't understand why I'm here. Tell me, please. Why am I here?"

Just _tell_ him. He was so confused. Didn't understand. Why wasn't he in the prison?

There was a moment of silence, and when Toris looked over his shoulder, moving his broken arm gingerly, the strange light in his eyes made Ludwig shudder.

"Why? I ask myself that every day," he whispered, as he eyed Ludwig from the doorframe.

Ludwig could only stare back, and knew he must have looked terrified.

Toris' impassive face fell, just for a second. A look of exhaustion.

Regret.

" _Oh_. ...I shoulda shot you."

Then he was gone.

Alone.


	10. Asphyxia

**Chapter 10**

**Asphyxia**

"I think I will make you a colonel."

It was always quiet here. Never any commotion.

The days passed by in a slow, uneventful tranquility.

Every day, as the last of the medication was used up, Ludwig felt a little better. He could sit up now, without that pain in his chest, and it was easier to focus on things and much easier to think. He didn't remember much from those days of illness, but sometimes when he laid back and closed his eyes, he could hear that soft, smooth voice in his head. The Russian didn't stay in his room all day now that he had passed the stage of danger.

The Russian.

Ivan.

So easy to dislike saying his name. Felt less real that way, but it was really unavoidable. You could only see someone so many times before their damn name stuck in your head.

Ivan was always there, even when he wasn't, it seemed. It was both a relief, and a disappointment. He hated being alone, stuck in this bed, even though Ivan was really the last person he wanted to see.

Too much time to think otherwise.

He thought about Gilbert, and those he had left behind. He thought about how guilty Erzsébet must have been, having been unable to stop Gilbert. He thought about how hurt Roderich must have been, having sent him off to that tunnel. He thought about how distraught Alfred must have been, having stood there at the gate and being unable to follow.

And Gilbert. How he must have been laying there now, like this, staring up at the ceiling and wondering how things could have gone differently. How many 'what if's. If he had just been patient. Less impulsive. Gilbert couldn't help it; he'd always been that way. Something wrong in his head. Not his fault.

Gilbert couldn't _help_ it.

Ludwig's great excuse, their entire lives.

Had to have an excuse for Gilbert, because Gilbert had been the sun in Ludwig's shadowy life. Spent so many days wondering who he was, until Gilbert jostled him and woke him up. 'Little brother', that was who he was.

Sometimes, he just couldn't remember.

The day had started off on the wrong foot.

As soon as the sun had risen over the horizon one cold morning, dim and pale behind the white clouds, someone had been at Ludwig's side, shaking him awake before he was ready. And for what? What could there possibly be for him to do here? So far, all he had done was sleep.

He smelled like sickness. Hated it.

'Wake up. Come on.'

He had swatted the hand irritably, weakly, and there had been a soft palm on his forehead, as a crooning voice asked, 'Feeling better?'

Before he could turn to see who it was, laying on his side as he was, another hand settled between his shoulder blades, and the soft voice said, 'Take a big breath for me.'

He did, as the hand stayed firmly on his back. Not Toris. Too gentle to be Toris. Toris usually tried to throttle the life out of him, it seemed.

'Cough.'

He did. It hurt a bit, but he did. A moment of silence, and then the hand was gone.

'Good! That looks really good! I was worried about you.'

He had looked over his shoulder then, and when he saw a pair of pretty, familiar blue eyes, he had sighed in relief. It had been the woman, he didn't know her name, but she was no threat to him. She had been there frequently in his delirium, and the motherly air about her was more than welcome.

Not Ivan. Good.

Kinda glad it wasn't Toris, either, honestly. The more and more Ludwig came to, the more aggressive Toris seemed. And the more and more Ludwig came to, the less and less he saw Ivan.

She had helped Ludwig sit up, sitting on the edge of the bed as she checked his temperature and smoothed his hair, and even though he was still in this house of the enemy, he just couldn't keep up too much of a guard around her, not the way she coddled him. Maybe he was just homesick. Lonely. Her hand ran over his stubbled cheek, and she fussed over his appearance in a friendly voice as he tried to take sips from the glass. Already, he was tired. How pitiful. He couldn't stand this feeling of weakness.

He had looked over at her from time to time, and took in her appearance. Fairly tall from what he could see, with pale skin and pretty eyes, a little stocky. Older than Ivan and Toris. She had the same color hair as Ivan, pale golden with a dewy sheen. Maybe they were related, which seemed a little strange, as scary as Ivan was. She did have his look about her.

She watched him as he tried to drink, her hands always wandering here and there.

'You look much better. I'm glad.'

He took comfort in her hands.

Her German was neat, and quite fluent, which was shocking if she and Ivan were actually related.

He meant to open his mouth and ask her what her name was, but he didn't have the chance; before he could even finish his glass, the door had creaked open, and Ivan had stood in the doorframe. Dressed a little more loosely than usual, it seemed, hair not yet combed and looking rather unkempt. Despite the freezing air, he wasn't wearing a coat. Hadn't seen him a while, and didn't want to.

After some gentle words in Russian, the woman took the glass from his hands, set it upon the end-table, and took her leave. Ludwig had longed to cry out after her, and say, 'Don't leave me alone with him!' but his throat clutched as Ivan's eyes fell on him.

Things turned tense, as always, and when Ivan had come to the edge of the bed, Ludwig shrank away without thinking about it. Just wanted Ivan to go away. So scared of that man, because the terrifying possibilities of Ivan's interest in him made him sick.

But the smile never fell from Ivan 's face, and he had extended a large hand, asking, quite happily, 'You want to go walking?'

Well.

Yeah. Yeah, he did. Actually, he wanted to do nothing more, having been bed-ridden for nearly a month, but that being said, he had _not_ wanted to go walking with Ivan, unless it was to the train station so he could go home. That seemed unlikely.

Ivan had stared at him, expectantly, but Ludwig had found no answer. He had merely narrowed his eyes in lieu of speaking, but it seemed like Ivan had only asked out of courtesy, because he had reached down and snatched Ludwig's hand within his own, anyway, and had pulled him to his feet. It had _hurt_ , as his chest lit up with agony.

'Feel alright?' Ivan had asked, seeing his face, and Ludwig nodded, even though he hadn't.

Felt sick.

He had been light-headed and woozy and in pain, wobbling dangerously, but his pride would not allow him to lean against Ivan, and he had boldly taken a step forward alone. A mistake, as he had promptly stumbled, his knees giving out completely beneath him. For a horrible weightless moment, he thought he would hit his head on the end table, but Ivan caught him with the reflexes of a cat, grabbing him up firmly by the waist and standing him straight. His legs just wouldn't work. They felt like someone had snatched the bones right out of them.

Oh, g _od_ , how he had _hated_ the feel of it, and he had ducked his head when tears of frustration stung his eyes, and it hurt him more than anything to be so dependent on someone else for something as simple as walking.

Shameful.

'I've got you,' Ivan had said cheerily, seemingly oblivious to his distress, and had pulled him slowly to the door. 'It's too cold for you outside. We will just walk down the halls, yeah?'

It had sounded nice, at first, until he realized that _Ivan_ was walking down the halls, and he was mostly being dragged. Couldn't stand being pressed up against Ivan's wide chest like that, not so vulnerable and with a man that had no trouble taking advantage of him in that state.

His feet felt numb, his legs quivered with the effort, and despite the cold air, sweat from exertion had dripped down his brow. His breath puffed out in the freezing air. Did they always live like this? In this cold? He had looked over at Ivan, dressed in a thick wool shirt and hands gloved, boots visible from under his pants, and could only assume the answer was 'yes'. How? He couldn't bear it. It was a strange feeling, to be sweating so and yet to be shivering with cold.

He tripped up a lot, and for a moment, he had to stop and duck his head down to keep himself from vomiting.

Ivan kept smiling down at him, and forced him to keep a steady pace, giving him a breather every so often.

'You'll get better soon. You were in bed a long time. It will take a while. You'll get better.'

The words were hardly comforting, as horrible as he felt.

An hour or so of stumbling down endless halls, twisting around corners and passing so many doors, and he had taken in his surroundings with a bleary mind. Everything was so _bland_ , and he felt as though he were walking through a fog the entire time. Pale colors, white tile, odd paintings every so often, arches and closed curtains and high ceilings. No bright colors. No bright lights. Only the pale, dusty streams of sunlight struggling through the curtains, and it was so _quiet_. Their footsteps echoed in the halls with a strange eeriness. The house was huge, and built so elegantly, and yet it was bare and hardly furnished, and seemed so empty.

So strange. A world of phantoms.

He hated it.

Another hour of walking, until he could take no more, and he had collapsed against Ivan's chest, panting for air even though it was so cold it stung his lungs.

'That's enough for now,' Ivan had muttered, and with a strong arm, he pulled Ludwig up straight, and changed direction, and after a few more twists they came before a door. Ivan had nudged it open with his foot, arms busy supporting Ludwig, and they stepped inside.

And then things had turned _weird_.

As soon as the door closed behind them, Ludwig had been taken aback. The room was alive (if such a word could be used), with both color and people and sound, and to be totally honest he wasn't really sure if he was hallucinating again or not. But no, surely not; he was past that point of fever, and he let his eyes adjust to the light as he struggled to catch his breath.

It appeared to be some kind of living room, or, more likely, a dressing room, and there was a small round table off to the side, and at it sat Toris, dressed neatly and shuffling through some papers with his good hand, and another boy that he did not recognize. Across the room, speaking loudly as she rustled through a larger dresser, was the tall woman that had been at Ludwig's side, and they were all laughing.

When they had laid eyes on Ivan, and him, they fell silent. Ludwig felt embarrassed as they had looked at him, propped up in Ivan's arms without strength, and he had realized that a radio was playing, filling the room with cheerful music that he could not understand. How mortifying, being held up like that in front of them.

Silence.

Toris' papers fell still upon the table.

Then the woman smiled, and so did Ivan, and all conversation resumed as though nothing had happened. Ivan pulled him inside and rested him down on a sofa, and Ludwig had been so grateful to sit that he laid back and closed his eyes, having no care to keep an eye on his surroundings. What did it matter?

A movement at his side had alerted him, and when he looked over, wearily, he saw that the woman had sat down next to him with a wide smile.

Ivan had walked off to the dresser, and opened this drawer and that, with a tilted head, as he started searching.

'What's your name?' the woman had asked, in her fluent, if not quirky, German, and before he could even open his mouth Ivan had called, back, 'Ludwig'.

A twinge of unease. Ivan, so domineering and overwhelming, was already answering questions for him, and that was not helping the warning siren blaring in the back of Ludwig's mind.

'I'm Irina.'

He had liked Irina, more than the others at least, and would have preferred her company over Ivan's any day. She was comforting. Not so alarming.

Toris had looked back at Ludwig over his papers, almost expectantly, and he remembered feeling a stir of apprehension in his chest. Was something going to happen? He had been so nervous then that he barely heard Irina babbling amicably at his side. They kept on looking at him.

Then someone grabbed his hand and yanked him to his feet, and thrust him in front of a mirror.

He saw himself there, as someone held him from behind. He _wished_ that it was Gilbert's reflection that he saw alongside his, but it was not.

_I won't ever leave you._

Gilbert was gone. For good.

And that jolt of longing brought him back to the present, and he stared into the mirror, watching his reflection with heavy eyes.

He barely recognized himself.

He was pale, even more than usual, white as a damn ghost, his forehead shimmering with sweat, and his chest heaved as he struggled to catch his breath. His hair was too long, and he needed to shave, even though the platinum stubble was barely visible against his skin. He had lost so much weight, so much. His collar bone was far too prominent, his cheeks hollow. He looked sickly and weak, and _hated_ himself for it, and it was made all the worse by Ivan, who stood behind him with a leer. Ivan stared into the mirror too, and they met each others' eyes in the reflection, as Ivan's hands clasped together firmly in front of Ludwig's stomach as he held him straight.

Resting his chin on Ludwig's shoulder, Ivan looked bright and alert and healthy, the exact opposite of himself. He looked...

There were no words that Ludwig's tired mind could really find to describe Ivan, except for _frightening_.

Warm breath tickled his neck, and he shuddered. Ivan observed him thoughtfully, and then nuzzled his cheek.

Oh, god. Terror.

He tried to pull away. He couldn't. No strength left at all. Helpless, in this crazy man's arms. A sharp inhale, as Ludwig struggled to keep composed.

"I think I will make you a colonel," came the whisper in his ear, and Ludwig's brow furrowed in confusion.

A colonel. Of _what_?

"Colonel?" came a snappish cry from behind, and Ludwig looked over his shoulder in the mirror to see that Toris had leapt from the table, tossing his papers down, keeping a mind of his arm. His eyes were blazing with something that looked almost like anger. Posture rigid. Brow furrowed. Like Toris had heard the most infuriating thing the world.

Ludwig was so confused. Helpless.

...the hell was going on?

"But he just got here!"

"No one was talking to _you_ ," was the sharp reply, and Toris fell back into his seat without another word, although his low brow and narrowed eyes clearly spoke his displeasure.

Ludwig had no idea what was happening.

"That suits him," Irina said, smiling cheerfully, and Ivan released his waist, and returned to the dresser.

"I know I have one," he muttered to himself, and Ludwig staggered back to the sofa, collapsing into it. A few minutes of shuffling, as Irina smoothed his hair down and fussed over his appearance, and then Ivan gave a triumphant, "Ah!" He looked over, met Ludwig's eyes, and said, simply, "Come here."

Ivan held a uniform in his hand, and Ludwig looked at it in silent confusion, and then he turned to Irina, who tilted her head encouragingly.

What? The hell was happening? His head was throbbing. He didn't move, thinking that they were all _crazy_ , because they were, and then Ivan took his hand and pulled him once again to his feet, and shoved the uniform into his arms.

"Here, put it on. I want to see you."

Ludwig stood there, dumbly, and Ivan grabbed his upper arm and pulled him back.

A tug towards a changing screen, a shuffle of clothes, and even though it was horrifically mortifying to have Ivan strip him down and help him into the uniform, it felt _so_ good to be rid of his dirty clothes, even for this ugly olive-colored shirt and pants. Grabbing a cloth from the dresser, Ivan wiped his face of sweat, and tussled his hair to dry it, and when he was satisfied he pulled Ludwig back over to the mirror and looked him over.

"Colonel was right for you."

Somewhere behind, Toris scoffed.

And even though he was still too pale and the circles under his eyes were visible from a mile away, too skinny and wan, Ludwig couldn't really help but feel a ridiculous surge of vanity, because...

"You look so handsome," Irina gushed from his side.

He did.

Under normal circumstances, and if he were not still out in space from his brush with death, Ludwig would have ripped the Soviet uniform off and started screaming that he was no goddamn Red, and that he would rather _die_ than see himself in such a color, but his thoughts were still muddled and he could only stare at his reflection numbly.

He was alone. No one here now to tell him who he was. Ivan was the only one now who had control over his fate, and Ludwig was so confused and depressed and homesick that he couldn't even think straight anymore, and even though they were his enemies, their kind words felt good in his ears. Clean clothes felt great. No matter what color they were.

Always felt good to be complimented, anyway.

Even as Ivan stood behind and reached forward, sweeping back his loose bangs with errant hands, Ludwig couldn't really seem to look away from the mirror.

Wow. He'd never worn a uniform. He'd never been able to. He'd never fit in anywhere. It felt strange. Not too bad. He'd always wanted to be able to put on a uniform. To fit in with everyone else. To be a part of something bigger than himself. To belong.

Oh. His head _hurt_. Maybe his brain still wasn't working right from the fever.

Ivan was beaming from behind, and for a confused moment, Ludwig had almost smiled himself. Almost. He'd used to wonder, sometimes, what he would look like as a military man. What he would have looked like had he been a normal guy. Had just always wanted to be normal.

This was anything but, though.

"I will think of a good last name for you," Ivan suddenly said, looking him up and down thoughtfully, "and then you can come with me when I go out. I'll leave you in Toris' care, for now. He will show you all you need to know. Understand?"

Nope.

But Ivan didn't wait for a response, and waved a hand in the air casually.

"I have to go. We will see each other tonight."

Then he was gone, and Ludwig was left with Irina and Toris and more bewildered than ever. He fell back onto the couch, exhausted. He just wanted to go back to sleep. Thinking was far too much effort right now. And nothing was making sense, so maybe it was better to be unconscious.

A voice drew him from his daze, and he felt a shadow fall over.

He opened his eyes. Toris stood above him. He didn't look happy. Actually, Toris looked more irritable than Ludwig had ever seen him, and that was saying a _lot_ , because Toris was by nature a miserable bastard.

The pulse in Toris' neck was hammering away with what was likely fury.

"Listen here," Toris suddenly hissed, looming over with hand on hip as Ludwig looked up at him wearily, "Let's get this straight; I didn't ask to take care of you, and I'm not going to waste my time on it, understand? I'll show you the basics, once, and then you're on your own. I have better things to do than teach Ivan's pets new tricks. I can't baby-sit every five minutes. I have work to do."

Toris' usually cool voice was heavy with spite. Rough. Agitated. Toris was always so angry with him.

" _Toris_ , don't be mean," Irina chastised, her eyes stern and face sharp.

Toris brushed her off.

Ludwig's brow came down, and he threw back, irritably, as his headache intensified, "So leave me alone! I didn't ask for this. You want somethin' better to do? Take me fuckin' _home_. How's that sound? Prick."

If Toris didn't want him here, then they were perfectly in agreement.

Toris' good hand twitched, and Ludwig wasn't sure if Toris had resisted the urge to pull his gun or to slap Ludwig across the face.

The atmosphere was tense, and Toris observed him through narrowed eyes, brow severe, and Ludwig could see his gaze falling over and over again to the bar on Ludwig's uniform. Ludwig looked down at his shoulder, dumbly, and observed too. His was gold, two blood-red stripes in the center, and above them sat three golden stars. He looked at Toris'; gold, too, but there was only one red stripe, and two gold stars.

Such a small difference, so why was he so angry? Who cared? He would be the first to admit that he had no knowledge of military ranks and duties, but what did it matter? He was not a soldier. He was not a colonel. He had the uniform, but anyone could find a uniform; so what? Toris had no reason to be angry with him.

This was some kind of game, right? Some joke. Just some kind of weird welcoming ritual.

Or something.

Welcome home, Ludwig!

It struck him suddenly, the utter absurdity of the situation, and before he could really stop himself he began to laugh, quite loudly, even as they stared him. His shoulders shook with the force of his giggles. Nearly crying, he laughed so damn hard. Couldn't even breathe. He probably sounded crazy giggling so, but he _felt_ crazy, and what else could he do? Motherfuckers were getting him all twisted around.

Toris' ire was ever rising.

Irina looked at Ludwig with an odd expressions, and Ludwig could only shake his head, and wheeze, through his cackles, "I have no _idea_ what is happening! I think I'm still dreaming, maybe. Nothing makes sense!"

Maybe he was really still in bed, stuck in delirium.

Instead of a prison, maybe they shoulda locked him up in a madhouse. He was losing it. Crazy as Gilbert. He couldn't seem to stop giggling.

The two beside of him looked at each other, Irina twisting her hands nervously in her lap, and when Toris' hand twitched once more, this time he gave in to his urge and did slap Ludwig across the face, quite smartly. Enough to stop Ludwig's outburst, anyway, and from the break on Toris' face, he had _intensely_ enjoyed slapping Ludwig. Ludwig just gawked at him, breathlessly, and when Toris opened his mouth again, his words cut through Ludwig's hysteria.

"No dream. We call it 'life', so you better wake the fuck up. You're a colonel now, and if you ever return to Berlin, it will be as an officer of the great Red Army. You'll stand next to them, and no one will ever know that you need help. You'll look like them. You'll act like them. You'll sound like them. No one will even think to question your presence there. But it's all an act, so you better get good at it, and fast. Or else. Probably won't have a good ending otherwise."

His breath stopped.

The words didn't really sink in. His head was spinning.

Red Army. Ha. Impossible. What? Some joke, alright. Not so funny anymore, though.

"You're crazy," Ludwig shot back, stubbornly, and Toris only shook his head, his anger steadily fading into exasperation. Annoyance. As if Toris were dealing with a dumb little kid.

"You just don't get it, do you, you big idiot? He wants you with him at all times. He doesn't trust you alone, and the only way you can travel with a general is if you're military, too. So." Toris held out his arms at his sides, and smiled in a way that was more of a sneer, as usual. "Welcome to the Red Army."

Did Toris even realize that he couldn't pull off a damn smile without eventually sneering? Did he care?

Did Ludwig?

Suddenly, Toris sneering at him seemed like the least of his worries.

His chest ached. Couldn't think.

This stupid uniform.

Toris carried on, quite easily, as pale Ludwig gawked up at him.

"You won't actually be doing any decision making, naturally. You're not going to be sent off to the frontlines. You'll just accompany Ivan and stand at his side and pretend you know what you're doing. Think of it as more of being a well-dressed ornament. You'll meet plenty of interesting people, if you're into that. You'll get used to it. You'll probably like it. Someone like you. Hell, when would _you_ have ever been that important, anyway? Colonel. If you're lucky, he might even give you a gun. Better learn to salute, though. They take that really seriously. Never mess up a salute."

A salute? Fuck the _salute_ —

"You're lying," Ludwig whispered, and oh g _od_ , he hoped Toris was. "He can't do that. It's illegal! Isn't it? That's... It's... He could be—"

"Arrested? How? No one will ever know. Your uniform is real, isn't it? _You_ look like a soldier anyhow, don't'cha, ya big oaf. And you won't say a word against him."

Like hell he wouldn't.

"Try me," he dared, voice barely a whisper, and now it was Toris who laughed.

"Just wait until you're alone with him, and see later if you're so brave! Think you can do better than me, huh?"

Me?

Ludwig felt the first trickle of dread slide into his stomach, and came to a sickening realization out of nowhere, as his eyes flew to Toris' uniform. Looked Toris up and down, eyes wide and forehead clammy and stomach churning.

No way. Couldn't be.

"You mean, you're not...?"

A coarse bark of laughter.

"No!" Toris spat, and it was Toris this time who gave a long round of hysterical cackles. Took him a while to calm down, as Ludwig tried not to throw up, and then Toris said, shaking his head as he smiled away, "I've never had a day of official military training in my life! What? You look so surprised. You thought I was a real lieutenant?" Toris' hand flew up, and he smoothed back his hair in self-satisfaction, sneering away and voice more of a drawl. "Yeah, I do a good job, don't I? I impress myself sometimes."

Toris laughed again, so easily, and Ludwig fell back onto the couch, feeling like he'd dived into the ocean.

He couldn't breathe.

He struggled to understand the magnitude of the situation he had been unwillingly thrust into. Everything around him was deceitful. He could not see the road before him, nor where it would lead to.

Lost. Alone.

A hand grabbed his shirt, and he was pulled to his feet.

"First thing's first, you better learn the national anthem! For appearance's sake. Ha! You're gonna be hearin' this for the rest of your life! Hope you like it."

He was dazed.

" _Slavsya, Otechyestvo nashe svobodnoye_!"

He was angry.

" _Slavy_ _narodov nadyozhnyy oplot_!"

He was frustrated.

" _Znamya sovetskoye, znamya narodnoye_!"

He was _scared_.

" _Pust' ot pobedy k pobede vedyot_!"

He just wanted to go home.

Gilbert.

A smack to the top of his head, as Toris tried to regain Ludwig's attention.

"Hey! For god's sake! I'm not makin' a fool of myself for nothing! Come on! Follow along."

He wanted to see Gilbert.

"Ah. We've got a _lot_ of work to do."

He wanted to _cry_.

* * *

"How's your hand?"

Emptiness.

Barely hearing the voice, Gilbert, head resting on the back of the couch, grumbled, "Better."

All the time. Surrounded by nothing.

"Let me see."

Automatically, he extended his arm, staring blankly at the ceiling, and didn't even react when fingers began to probe at his hand, the sharp pains shooting up his arm barely even registering. He felt nothing.

Only emptiness. Numbness.

"Well," came the hesitant voice, "I guess it's looking a little better. Can you move it?"

He tried. His fingers twitched, and then fell still.

"Nope."

"Alright."

And with that, Erzsébet lowered his arm gently down, and laid back, watching him silently. He could feel her eyes upon him, but made no effort to meet them, continuing his staring contest with the ceiling. He didn't much feel like speaking to her anyway.

His chest hurt. Or maybe that was his heart.

Who cared, in the end?

This had been the longest month he had ever known, and he hadn't even left the house except for when Erzsébet and Alfred had dragged him (literally) down to the hospital. His broken hand had been so badly damaged that there had been talk of amputation, and he had only shrugged a shoulder, not really caring either way what happened to him, but in the end, metal pins had straightened the bone and an operation had removed the unusable broken fragments from his tendon. It would be as good as new, they said, in a few months. Or at least more visually appealing than a stump, if not entirely functional.

So what? It didn't matter.

Days. Weeks. Months. Years. Time didn't matter anymore.

Ludwig was gone.

Living with Alfred was proving unbearable, every second of it, and all around him were reminders of his brother. Couldn't stand it. Ludwig wasn't coming back.

The mantle over the fireplace held photos of them together in days long since past. Gilbert had been in the process of burning them when Alfred came home and, furious, nearly broke his hand all over again to get them away from him. He had stashed them, no doubt, in his own room.

The kitchen was full of flour and baking pans. Gilbert threw them out. He didn't bake.

The bathroom smelled of sandalwood. He bleached it all out.

And the bedroom...

Oh, god, the bedroom. He couldn't even go in it. He had tried, and the second he had turned the knob, he had burst into tears and backed away. He just couldn't. He had been sleeping on the couch.

He felt like he was walking through a great, vast field of fog, and he couldn't see the other end. He didn't leave the house. He didn't want to see people. Sometimes, he rested his forehead against the cold window at night, and looked up at the sky. The stars seemed dull. Distant. The only star he had ever given a thought to in his entire life had been Ludwig.

That star had burned out. Ludwig was gone.

Gone.

Ludwig should have never been 'gone'. They were supposed to be together.

Alfred _hated_ him.

Sometimes, Alfred came home and would start to say, 'Ludwig, I'm back,' and then he would trail off, a strange look on his face, and then his shoulders slumped and he would inhale sharply as his face crumpled, and then he would walk past Gilbert without even a 'hello'. Alfred couldn't even stand to look at him half the time.

Caught Alfred glaring at him quite often.

He hated himself, too, so Gilbert took it.

Meals were awkward. Forks scraping plates, and sometimes Alfred would look up at him, brow low and eyes dark, and when he saw that Gilbert wasn't really eating, he would quickly snap, in a hostile voice, 'If you don't eat, I'm gonna shove it down your throat. Ludwig didn't go over there for nothin'.'

One night, he'd been sitting there on the couch, and Alfred had stood there above him, watching him with a strange expression. When Gilbert had finally bothered to look up and meet his eyes, Alfred had shaken his head and whispered, mostly to himself, 'I can't see any of _him_ in you.'

Him. Ludwig.

Of course Alfred couldn't see it. Because there wasn't any. Ludwig had been better. So much better. Not real brothers, anyway. Alfred knew it.

Once, he'd heard Alfred speaking on the phone to either Roderich or Erzsébet, and Alfred had dissolved into tears, moaning to the other line, 'But I don't _care_ about _him_! I don't! I don't _want_ him here! _Please_ , find him somewhere else to stay! I hate having him here! I _hate_ him! I want Ludwig back. Please. I can't— I can't...'

He'd walked away, and left Alfred in solitude.

Alfred _hated_ him. He deserved it.

Erzsébet came to visit frequently, always with words of encouragement, but they did little for him. Useless rationality and halfhearted, 'it's not your fault's. It _was_ his fault. She didn't have to lie to him. Roderich certainly didn't. Roderich had not set foot in the house since, but he called, to speak to Alfred, and if it was Gilbert who answered he would take a deep, shuddering breath, and slam the phone down.

Roderich hated him even more than Alfred did. Roderich had always hated him. The feeling had been mutual. Roderich and Gilbert—they hadn't ever been meant to be friends.

Everything about Roderich, Gilbert hated.

Vice versa.

Maybe Roderich had hated him at the beginning, though, just because Gilbert had been friends with his wife. Maybe that was normal, for a guy to hate another guy that was friends with his wife.

Maybe that was Gilbert's fault, for being a little touchy with her back in the day. Always had been, when Ludwig had been little, and Gilbert had been sitting next to her on the couch one night, high as a fuckin' kite, and she had turned to look at him, her smile comforting and pleasant.

He'd asked her, then, what she saw in Roderich.

She'd just smiled, and replied, 'I love him.'

It wasn't that Gilbert wanted her for himself. Wasn't anything like that. He hadn't ever loved her, not like that. It was just that he didn't really want Roderich to ever have anyone. He didn't want Roderich to be happy.

Simple spite.

So, he'd carried on the conversation, and had put an arm around her shoulder.

'Say, don't you think I'm a lot more handsome?'

She'd laughed, and placed her hand above his own. 'You're as dashing as they come, Gilbert!'

'So how come you're not with _me_?'

She had turned to look at him, her eyes red and lidded like his were, and she burst into laughter.

'Oh, Gilbert!' she had cried, between giggles, 'Oh! I could sit here and drop acid with you all day long, but I can't _even_! I can't even _imagine_ fucking you!'

She'd giggled away, and it had been injured pride (and maybe the acid) that had made him grab her chin and turn her head, crushing their lips together. She had humored him, then.

Afterwards, he'd looked down at her, her chin still in his hand, and he'd conceded.

'You're right. That didn't do anything for me.'

She patted his arm.

'It's alright. I'd drive you crazy.'

Maybe that was true. ...and vice versa.

He'd really only ever thought about Ludwig. He _did_ love Ludwig. It hurt, sometimes. It only got worse, the more Ludwig had grown. The possessiveness had grown right along with him, and Gilbert hadn't really been able to control it.

He had argued with Roderich _so_ many times about Ludwig. He couldn't stand it when Roderich wanted to talk to Ludwig, even just over the phone. It made him want to scream. Made him want to strangle the son of a bitch. Talkin' to Ludwig? What for? What did Roderich want, anyway? Felt like Roderich had always wanted to steal him, take him away. Couldn't stand it.

Roderich had _always_ hated him.

So it was with great surprise that Erzsébet threw a coat over Gilbert's shoulders that day, and said, "Roderich wants to see you. Come on."

Gilbert looked at her, dumbly, and she tugged him to his feet.

Since when?

"Why?"

"I don't know, Gilbert, he wouldn't say."

Even she seemed a bit surprised. Anxious, in a way.

Gilbert didn't want to go, and dug his heels in the carpet. He was _afraid_ to go. He dreaded the thought of going outside. Being in the world. Facing humanity after what he'd done.

Of facing Roderich's gaze. Didn't want to see Roderich. But he was even more frightened _not_ to go, because Roderich would no doubt blow his top and come marching over, and that would be even worse. Couldn't stand the way Roderich looked at him when he was angry, least of all now. Couldn't stand the storm in Roderich's eyes, nor the accusation. The hate.

Roderich knew damn well that it should have been Gilbert over there.

He let Erzsébet lead him where she would, and he drifted out into space, barely aware when they stepped into a taxi. Outside. He didn't deserve to be outside, amongst people.

Where was Ludwig now? Was he still alive? Or had he already expired in Siberia? Ludwig would never see these streets again. It wasn't fair. It wasn't right. Gilbert was older. Useless. Careless and reckless and mean and, to put not too fine a point on it, a terrible human being.

Ludwig was young. Bright. Gentle and polite and calm and good-natured and kind. Ludwig could have been somebody, someway, somehow. Ludwig had deserved the world. Gilbert had given him hell.

Gilbert came back down to earth only when Erzsébet shook his arm, gently, and whispered, "Go on. I'll wait here. It'll be alright."

He started, and realized that he was standing in the hallway of a building, and the door was in front of him.

When had he gotten out of the car?

She shoved him forward, and he stumbled.

That door.

He froze up, reluctant to pass through it and face the wrath of a better man, but Erzsébet pulled it open and shoved him through. The click from behind sounded more like a death knoll, and then he saw Roderich sitting at his desk.

His stomach twisted.

The air was thick.

They stared at each other, silently, Gilbert shuffling his feet awkwardly, and then Roderich stood. Felt like too long that Roderich tried to murder Gilbert with his eyes, and when he was unsuccessful, he merely said, "Gilbert."

The name from his tongue dripped with distaste.

"Roderich. You wanted to see me?"

Roderich, as usual, cut to the chase.

"Yes. Do you know how to get to Brno?"

"Where is that?"

"Czechoslovakia."

"I... No. I don't know."

Another short pause, as Roderich raked his eyes over Gilbert, observing and calculating, and then he asked, voice steady and guarded, "How are you feeling?"

Why? Roderich didn't care how he was, so there was something else going on. Roderich would rather that Gilbert was dead.

"I don't know," Gilbert responded again, warily, and Roderich leaned forward, brow furrowed.

"I'm asking how you're _feeling_ ," he said, and there was no love in his voice. "I'm asking if you can walk. If you can move your hand. If you're ready to get going."

"I'm..."

Gilbert trailed off, as Roderich opened up the drawer on his desk and began to rummage through it. He was confused, and cautious, and the light in Roderich's eyes was not necessarily a good thing.

Something was going on. And knowing Roderich, it was not going to be pleasant for him.

" _Where_ am I going?" he finally managed, voice cracking, and feeling the churning in his stomach.

There was a heavy silence, a movement as Roderich pulled something from the drawer, and then Roderich scoffed and reached out across the desk, thrusting into Gilbert's hands a folded map, and a gun.

Holy shit.

The fuck was a guy like Roderich doing with a _gun_? Guns scared the hell outta Roderich, holy _shit_ —

His felt ice slip down the back of his neck, and shivered.

"You're going after Ludwig. You're going to bring him _home_."

Ludwig?

Impossible. Ludwig was gone.

"Back... _there_?"

Gilbert shuddered, and, at some level, was disgusted at himself for his cowardice. He had spent the last month dreaming about getting back to Ludwig, but, oh _god_. The thought of going back _there_ was enough to make him tremble like a leaf caught in a breeze. Back in the Red zone. Back into the USSR.

He could have puked right there.

"Yes," Roderich spat, sitting back down and clasping his hands before him. "Back _there,_ you pitiful bastard. I've marked the map. I called some favors, and paid some money. That general that you mentioned—I found him. His name is Ivan Braginsky. I've written it down. He was touring the Eastern Bloc, and was last seen in Brno. From there, he was supposed to go to Budapest, but he never showed. So, you'll have to go to Brno first, and find out what happened."

"Why?"

He didn't understand. What could he do? What could he possibly do? If he did catch up to that guy, then what? Go up to him and say, 'Hey, I know we made a deal and all, but can I have my brother back? Kinda need him.'

Hardly.

Roderich was probably just trying to get him killed. That was pretty fair.

"Why go after _him_?"

And now Roderich's gaze churned as fiercely as Gilbert's stomach, and he muttered, "The man I spoke to said that the general was accompanied by a lieutenant, and by a young blond man with blue eyes, in no uniform, that no one recognized. Sound familiar?"

The world stopped, and all he could hear suddenly was the pounding of the blood in his ears.

He could have died.

Ludwig was with _him_? _Alone_?

No, wait, that guy had said that Ludwig was going to Siberia. Why was he with _him_?

Numb and suddenly very cold, he met Roderich's serious eyes and could only nod, once. Understood, despite the terror. Understood that Ludwig was gone, but not out of reach. Within the realm of possibility. There was hope still, however thin and fragile. Ludwig, brave and strong, might still be alive and in a position to be rescued. Good god, fuckin' Christ, hadn't ever even dreamed that, hadn't ever considered it.

Hope. A strange feeling.

It had been a month, yeah, but still not long enough to lose sight of Ludwig.

Roderich looked him over again, as if assessing his health, and then, quietly, amended, "Well. Take Alfred with you, if you want. He's stronger. He'll go, if you ask."

"No," Gilbert whispered, shaking his head. "I'll go alone."

Alfred hated him.

A scoff.

"Fine."

His heart raced in terror, because he didn't _want_ to go alone. Not alone. Too damn scared to go it alone. But he couldn't bring himself to ask Alfred to go with him, even though he knew the bold brat would agree in a second, because Alfred hated _him_ , and he couldn't bear traveling with someone better than himself. If _Alfred_ saved Ludwig, instead of him, he woulda been horrified. Selfish, but he couldn't fathom the thought of not saving Ludwig as Ludwig had saved him.

Should have taken all the help he could get, because Ludwig deserved that, and so Gilbert was still putting himself first, as he always had. Couldn't take Alfred, because Alfred was a better man.

Pitiful.

All the more reason to get Ludwig back, to make him hate himself just a little a less.

Roderich, on the other hand, didn't really seem on planning to hate Gilbert any less, even if he did miraculously come trouncing over the wall again with Ludwig in tow, and was quick to add, "I want him back here, no matter _what_ , _Gilbert_ , and I don't care if you die along the way."

Dread.

"And when he's safe—"

_Together._

"—I'm adopting him, he's getting _my_ name, he's coming with me and Erzsébet to Vienna—"

He had tried his best.

"—and you won't _ever_ see him again. And that's that."

_Forever_.

Numb and dazed, Gilbert could only nod dumbly under Roderich's burning gaze; how could he argue? Roderich was always right, it seemed, and Ludwig would be safer with them, because Gilbert had failed so terribly. How could he ever be trusted with such responsibilities afterwards? Ludwig would be better off with Roderich. Couldn't argue, for once in his life.

Roderich appeared satisfied.

"I'll help you all I can, from here. You know the number. And god _help_ you, Gilbert, if you don't bring him back. If it's not with _him_ , then don't bother coming back here. You hear me? Stay over there. Don't you come back across that wall without Ludwig."

Gilbert nodded.

He didn't deserve to see Ludwig again.

Roderich was right.

"Go."

He did, clenching the map so tightly in his hand as he went that it crumpled, and tucked the gun into his coat pocket. He wouldn't fail again, not again.

Redemption.

He'd do anything for Ludwig.

Anything.


	11. Infinite Tunnel

**Chapter 11**

**Infinite Tunnel**

It was only appropriate.

Oh, _god_ , he was so afraid of the dark. His worst fear. Night. Not seeing.

Gilbert was afraid of groping blindly in the black of night. He was afraid of not knowing what lay ahead, or behind. He was afraid of things laying in wait that he could not see. He was afraid of ghosts, even, for Christ's sake.

He was afraid.

But it was only appropriate, Roderich had literally written on the map, that Gilbert be forced to use the same death tunnel that Ludwig had crawled through when he had set out on his rescue so long ago. Because history was doomed to repeat itself, after all, and Roderich had always had a taste for the cruelly ironic.

What Roderich did not understand was that Ludwig was brave...

Gilbert stood before the grate, hands clenched into fists at his sides, chest falling and rising with deep breaths as he struggled to stifle his fear and nausea, forehead dripping with sweat despite the cool air.

...and _he_ was not.

Or maybe Roderich understood that full well and was tormenting Gilbert out of spite. Seemed more likely.

This place. This horrible place. All around him were terrible gusts of wind and haunting creaking of the dilapidated building, and he stared ahead at the locked metal grate, and beyond it there was _nothing_ —only oblivion, and oh, Christ, it was _so_ dark. It was made all the worse at the thought in his head of Ludwig standing here once before, and he could see it before him as though through a dreamy fog :

Ludwig, pale hair shining white in the moonlight, standing tall and straight, completely calm and determined, and when his eyes looked into the void, he saw only the other side.

Gilbert saw only death. Nothingness.

Gilbert was glad that he hadn't told Alfred he was leaving, because Alfred was brave too, and he had no doubt that Alfred would have pushed onward without a sliver of hesitation and without fear. Alfred would have showed him up without a second thought. Woulda shamed him.

He fell onto his knees before the grate, ripped away the unlocked chain that Ludwig had left behind, and somehow didn't die of a heart-attack.

The great black void beyond.

Time to go. He could do it. He _could_.

Ludwig had done it.

Sucking in one great breath, he knelt back down, pulled the mesh up, and as soon as he had crossed the other side, he broke into a mad dash, praying that he could just make it to the other end in one mighty sprint. But it didn't happen that way, and he had barely gone ten yards before he was forced to slow, as the ceiling suddenly turned into dirt, and the dirt kept getting narrower and narrower.

The tunnel was small.

For a moment, bent at his waist, hands reaching up and cupping soft earth, he froze. Had never been so fuckin' scared in his entire life, not even in that damn cell. Not like this. Suffocating. Stifled. In absolute darkness.

God help him, the terrible thought that crept suddenly into his mind, oh god help him.

That thought.

The thought that he could just turn around right then, that he could slink back into the city, that he could go somewhere far away, maybe France, retreating from this death tunnel as he retreated from so many things, and he would take with him all of his memories of Ludwig, and no one would ever know of his horrible descent into shame, or how he had thrown away his brother because of his own cowardice.

Could have run, so easily.

_It was worth it, just to see you again._

How could he? Ludwig had crossed the wall for him.

No.

Digging his fingers into the dirt so close above him, he closed his eyes, and pushed it away so hard that his head began to pound, because he would turn this gun on himself before he ever abandoned Ludwig to the winds. No matter what road lay before him, he would never turn his back on his brother. Ludwig was more than brother; Ludwig was everything. Everything.

Loved that man.

Never.

He lived for Ludwig. Without Ludwig, there was _nothing_. No stars. Just an empty sky.

Carry on.

Gilbert sucked in a great breath, found his feet, and plunged into the darkness, leaving behind him the security of the West, because Ludwig _needed_ him, and maybe the whole thing was folly, stupid and foolish, but if he could not get Ludwig back, then he would not return. He'd shoot himself, he would. Couldn't live the rest of his life like that. Not like that.

Crouching down and feeling dizzy as his heart hammered in his chest, he crept along carefully, sticking his foot out and feeling around before he took a step, and at his sides he felt the moist edges of the tunnel. It was cold, damp, and the air was stale and musty and rancid. Close and tight around him. Absolutely pitch-black. It was the most horrifying experience of his life, worse even than when he had been strapped to that iron chair in the _Stasi_ building, because at least there he could _see_. At least there he had a bearing, had a sense of his surroundings.

Nothing here.

Claustrophobia. Everything was closing in. Crushing.

His breathing became shallow and erratic, and he could feel his self-control wavering as the walls began to close in around him, and his head bumped against the dirt ceiling. It was too small, too compact, too narrow, too cramped. He could not get enough air. He couldn't breathe.

Carelessly, he stopped feeling before he stepped, desperate to get free from this suffocating night before he passed out.

The dirt got stuck under his nails.

He tried to speed up, but there were so many holes, and he stumbled, over and over again, and every time that he pulled himself to his feet he could feel the urge to run bubbling up within him.

He was scared.

It was _so_ long. There was no end in sight. An eternity of fear and night and foul air. Just wanted to bolt, but couldn't fuckin' _see_. If there was someone behind him, or in front of him, then how would he _know_ , and Jesus, what if there were bodies in here? What if he tripped over one and landed on it, and—

Something suddenly crawled over his hand, an insect maybe, but the skittering touch was just too much, and he threw all caution to the wind and gave in to his panic. _Blaring_ panic. Hadn't ever felt anything like that panic. He ran, as well as he could, gasping in the sour air and trying his best not to cry. He had to get out of here.

The scariest moment of his life.

He tripped in another hole, and this time his ankle twisted, but he could not stop. Panic in his veins led him now. Not the urge to save. He forced himself to his feet, ignored the terrible pain, and hobbled on, digging his fingers in the dirt and hauling himself along. Because behind him there was only fear and pain and anger and hopelessness and regret, and oh, how he _hated_ himself with every breath for ever being so stupid, Roderich would never forgive him if he gave up, and before him there was hope and salvation and redemption in the face of Ludwig—

_Oh god, help me, help me, helpmehelpmehelpme—_

Light.

Suddenly there was light.

He sped his furious pace, and there was suddenly a flimsy wooden door before him, made of poorly constructed boards and nails, and through the cracks streamed a faint light.

Hope.

He ran into it with all of his strength, his shoulder bringing it crashing down, and when he broke through into the fresh air, he collapsed.

Air. Light. Open space.

He was in another building, he did not know what kind, nor did he care; there was only cool air and moonlight, and he crawled out from the dirt, fingers digging into the concrete floor as he pulled himself back into the world.

Freedom.

Rolling over onto his back, he heaved for breath, staring up at the ceiling, and once his lungs had had their fill, he reached up, clenched his dirty fingers in his equally dirty hair, and started to cry. He laid there for half an hour, maybe more, sobbing into his sleeves and crying out in misery to no one, rolling from side to side as he tried to come down from that awful atmosphere of total fear, and he was grateful for once that Ludwig was not with him, because it would have _shamed_ him for his brother to see him wallowing like this.

Shame. All he had was shame.

What did it matter, anyway? Ludwig had seen him wallowing before. All he'd ever done his whole life, it seemed, dirty and wallowing in some street. Ludwig just wasn't here to pick him up this time.

It hurt, more than anything else, to imagine his little brother crawling through that tunnel, kneeling in the dark and creeping through death itself, just for him. For a big brother that had been less that and more burden. Couldn't even stomach the thought. It made his chest ache and throat clench up, seeing it up in his head. That proud, noble, dignified Ludwig had _ever_ had to do this. Had been reduced to this. Pristine, neat Ludwig, lowering himself into the dirt for Gilbert.

Because Gilbert had been stupid.

As he laid there, gasping for air and coughing as he tried to stop the sobs, he wished, above all else, that he had left Ludwig in Roderich's care all those years ago as everyone had wanted. None of this would have happened.

Roderich had deserved Ludwig all along. His son, he had always said.

Once Gilbert had found the strength to carry on, he staggered out of the abandoned building, limping as his ankle lit up with agony, and he found himself once again roaming the streets of the Eastern Bloc. Once again voiceless and repressed. On this side that he hated. Back in the East. How funny. Couldn't ever seem to get away from it.

Somehow, he didn't know how, he eventually found himself in front of his old flat. It was locked, and his key was long gone. He shattered a window and crawled through, because surely one night of this hell was enough for now. He needed to shower himself free of the acrid soil, and put ice on his ankle. Try to scrub free of the shame.

It did not fully register with him that he was _home_ until he looked out at the city from the window of his abandoned flat, and saw the wall looming in the distance. That old wall. He shuddered.

He threw himself into a chair, and stared at the wall, and he stayed there in his house for nearly two damn weeks, gathering his strength and his nerve for his journey into the abyss. Trying to overcome shame and desperation.

Pitiful.

Ludwig was strong. He wouldn't give up. Gilbert wouldn't, either.

Ludwig was waiting for him.

_Together._

* * *

Weeks.

Weeks of merciless training, with orders and disappointed shakes of heads and halfhearted smacks, and Ludwig felt like a goddamn dog, jumping when Toris said to without even realizing he was doing it.

Every day. Every hour. Every _minute_.

Even though Toris said it was for his own good, Ludwig had serious reservations about the truthfulness of that statement, because how could it possibly be _good_ for him to have Toris burst into his room in the dead of night, stomping his boots and shouting, 'Up! Up!' and scaring the almighty out of him? How could it be good for him to have Toris blaring the Soviet national anthem on the record player as he tried to sleep? How could it be good for him to have Toris drag him into the bathroom, toss him into the shower, and turn on the freezing cold water?

Every day was the same.

Toris hated him, that much was obvious.

At times, it felt like Ludwig was more of a glorified stress ball for Toris, rather than a pupil. Because it looked like Toris seemed to enjoy it. Liked tormenting him. Looked very much like Toris took some kind of pleasure out of Ludwig's misery.

The hatred was fairly mutual.

The first day hadn't been so bad. Toris had only worked on how straight Ludwig kept his back and with what precision he saluted. And even though Ludwig didn't understand why the hell he was _doing_ this, any of this, he did it anyway, because obeying Toris was easier than arguing with him. Arguing with stubborn Toris was like trying to argue with an ass.

...actually, Toris _was_ an ass.

Anyway, Ludwig did it because he didn't have anything else to do. He still thought it was just a game, in some way. Something to pass the time. Something for bored Toris to do.

But Toris was just _merciless_.

A single millimeter off with his hand and Toris would heave an aggravated sigh and slap the back of his head. A single quiver when he was standing straight and Toris would furrow his brow and grab his collar at the back of his neck, pulling him from behind until he was as rigid as a board, not caring at all if he could breathe or not. A single twitch of his eyes when he was supposed to be at attention, and Toris would smack his cheek, sharply enough to sting.

Toris loved every second of slapping him, that was for sure.

And everything Ludwig said had to be followed up with 'Comrade'.

'Colonel?'

'Yes, comrade?'

'I like that uniform.'

'Thank you, comrade.'

'Where did you get it?'

'From you, comrade.'

'Where's your hat?'

'On my head, comrade.'

'And who owns that hat?'

'You do, comrade.'

'I own that hat, so does that mean I own your head too?'

'Yes, comrade.'

If he forgot to say it, Toris would reach up and pull his hat down below his eyes and hit the top of it with his fist. It didn't _hurt_ , not with Toris' somewhat gentle hands, but it was annoying as all hell, and sometimes he just longed to whirl around and punch Toris in the nose and say, 'That's for you, _comrade_!'

Why didn't Toris have to say it?

Jerk.

It was with great effort that he restrained himself from following through with the urge to punch Toris, because Irina usually accompanied Toris on these training sessions, and Ludwig would not resort to such uncouth actions in front of a lady. Roderich woulda killed him. Especially when Irina was always so keen to tell him exactly how well he was doing, and how handsome he was, and how _mannered_!

Well. Yes. All that.

Her praise made it a little easier. Not the worst thing out here, certainly, her praise. And he could walk now, without that pain in his body, and that helped his irritability a bit.

Toris would press his luck too far one day, though.

Eh, who was he fooling? Punching Toris outright would have gotten Ludwig knocked out, if he could have even managed to snag the bastard in the first place. He had gotten in one good sucker punch, and Toris was very likely dying for the opportunity, for an excuse, to pummel the hell out of Ludwig in return. Toris may not have been a real soldier, but he had obviously been trained like one and was absolutely not a man Ludwig wanted to tussle with. Toris' strength was visible even beneath his clothing.

Ludwig felt agitated. Trapped.

Couldn't stand it.

Always, always, he thought of ways to escape. Couldn't yet, though, so he did what Toris wanted.

At night, when the training was complete (if Toris was in a good mood, anyway), when he would lay down in bed, exhausted, Ivan would knock once on the door and then slip inside, sitting himself down in the chair and smiling over at Ludwig calmly. Ludwig could only look over at him, terrified more than he was annoyed, because Ivan was always so damn scary, and tried to engage in awkward conversations.

Ivan scared him so _badly_ without trying to that whenever he was in the door, the hairs on Ludwig's arms stood up.

'Toris said you did really well today.'

Oh, yeah? News to him. Toris sure told him the opposite.

A strained, 'Mm.'

'I'm glad. I expect a lot from you, you know. You're going to be something great. I can tell. Keep it up!'

With that, Ivan would stand up, clap Ludwig on the shoulder, and leave. Ludwig stared at the door long after he was gone, shuddering.

Psycho.

Something great? Like what? He'd never been anything. Nobody. He didn't know what Ivan _wanted_ from him. He didn't understand. What was the point of any of this? Ivan said he expected a lot. Of what? He hated even thinking about it. It made him sick. He didn't get any of this. He couldn't figure it out. He hated not knowing. Being in the dark.

Every day was the same.

Sometimes, Toris taught him something different.

Ludwig was starting to wear down a little, although whether from exhaustion or duress he couldn't say. Just didn't get it. Didn't know what Ivan wanted.

Didn't know what Toris wanted, either, for that matter.

Toris was trying his best to beat all of these actions into Ludwig's subconscious, and even though he hated it, by god it was working, and when Toris would burst into his room in the night, Ludwig would leap from his bed in a bleary daze, stand up straight and salute, and Toris would only smile (or was that a sneer?) and walk right back out.

Sometimes, when he wasn't thinking about it, Ludwig would stop and realize that he was humming the Soviet national anthem.

Sometimes, when Toris walked into the room, Ludwig would realize that his posture had become perfect.

Worse, when Ivan would enter the room Ludwig would stop where he stood and stare straight ahead, as though at attention, without even thinking about it, and when Ivan smiled knowingly, pleased, Ludwig felt his cheeks burn red and realized that he had been successfully conditioned.

They were getting into his head.

No. _Ivan_ was getting into his head, because everything Toris did came straight from Ivan, didn't it, and he could not help but wonder who had trained Toris. Moody Toris, who couldn't even smile, and Ludwig knew that it had been ruthless Ivan. No one else here. The poor son of a bitch. No wonder Toris was such a jackass.

Had a million questions he wanted to ask Toris, but couldn't, because Toris could barely stand to be in the same room with him unless he was slapping him senseless.

What was going on around here? So many things hidden. This world of secrets and lies.

He hated this place.

Hated these _people_. These bizarre, insane people.

Irina was nice, but she was a little off in a way, kinda unsettling at times, making Ludwig shudder unintentionally as much as Ivan did. Hated her. Toris was moody, bitchy, bossy, aggressive, violent, easily agitated. Hated him. The kid was annoying, somehow or another. Hated him.

And Ivan?

Hated him most of all, that fuckin' lunatic. Fuckin' psychopath. Ludwig wished Ivan would have just dropped dead. Hated him so much because, in the end, Ludwig was so terrified of him. Had never been truly and honestly terrified of anyone, never, until he had met this man. Ludwig was powerless and helpless around Ivan, and hatred was natural. The way Ivan looked at him scared the hell out of him.

Hated them, and yet...

It was so stupid, he knew it, but goddamn if he wasn't lonely. Kinda nice, in a way, to always have someone nearby. Ludwig couldn't help but enjoy the attention they gave him, in some dumb way, even if he would go to his grave denying it. It was pleasant, to have people saying kind things to him, after years and years of fighting constantly with volatile Gilbert.

Being in this house may have been driving him as crazy as they were, for that notion to even cross his mind.

Felt so tired all of the time, and because of that exhaustion it was so much easier to just throw his hands in the air and do what they wanted, because hell, aside from Toris slapping the shit out of him they hadn't hurt him. Hadn't tried to hurt him, hadn't locked him up somewhere.

Just a house.

Time passed, Toris kept on training, and Ludwig kept on learning. Even if he didn't really want to. What else could he do? He didn't have a life outside these walls anymore. He did what he was told, in a blind daze.

Maybe that had all been for the best.

He finally got the salute right one day, and when Ludwig had been a little proud of himself, waiting for praise, he had been disappointed.

Toris had just lifted up his brow, gave Ludwig a droll look-over, and then snipped, grumpily, 'Took you long enough.'

Ludwig had nearly sighed. Oh, well.

Toris was probably sad he didn't have much of an excuse to keep on slapping him, the bastard.

Days later, Ludwig was finally given some insight and information.

It wasn't what he wanted.

For when finally he realized why Toris had been training him so relentlessly these entire weeks through, it did not make him feel any better. Actually, it made him feel worse. Kinda wished he didn't know at all.

It was the coldest morning yet, so cold he could feel it even as he slept, and Ludwig had been shaken awake at dawn's first light, pulled to his feet, and when his eyes cleared, Toris had been standing before him, brow creased and lips pursed. Ludwig hadn't even had time to open his mouth to ask what was wrong.

Dazed. Sleep-shocked.

One yank to the door, and Toris had dragged Ludwig down the halls rather forcefully, so fast that he stumbled, and led him into a room.

Clothes had been shoved into his hands, and Toris had said, 'Change! Quick!'

He had.

And here now he stood, in front of a full-length mirror, dressed in the ugly Soviet uniform that had been forced upon him, a layer of thermals underneath, and Toris was circling him like a vulture, inspecting every detail.

Hated that color.

Hard not to hate everything when Toris was nitpicking him like that. Fingers, pinching here and there, straightening and preening.

"Well," Toris finally grumbled to himself, as he reached up to straighten Ludwig's hat with sure fingers, functioning surprisingly efficiently with one hand, "at least you look good in it, I guess. Now that you've put some weight back on."

What did he say to that? Thanks? Eh. Toris was such a jerk.

Ludwig only grunted and shrugged a shoulder, awkwardly, and suddenly Toris met his eyes, and there was only seriousness.

"We're leaving soon, so be ready."

His heart raced.

"Where are we going?"

He hadn't been outside in all the time he had been here. He didn't even know what it looked like out here. Didn't want to, either.

Toris looked at him, and for a moment there, moody Toris had almost looked _sad_. Downtrodden, in a way. Go figure; hadn't known Toris could really ever feel that way. So angry all of the time.

"Lensk. It's another town. Ivan holds a military ball there every year, or just about." Toris' eyes narrowed, and he observed Ludwig from head to toe, adding, voice thin, "He's had one already this year, so you must have made quite an impression. Well, no one ever died from too much fun, I suppose."

Yeah, right. Gilbert might have challenged that statement.

Still, Ludwig didn't understand any of it, and his look said as much.

Toris took pity on him, for once, and elaborated, "They hold a big military ball every year in Moscow, but Ivan hates Moscow, so he started hosting his own in Lensk a while ago. They're a big hit with the Soviet generals and everyone else, too; Bulgarian, Chinese, Hungarian, East Germans, Romanian, Polish. Ivan doesn't hold them up to military code when they're there, you see. They do whatever they want. They bring their mistresses. They bring boys. They drink all they want. They gamble. In Ivan's world, everything is legal. It's held in the grand hotel, so they can sleep it off the next morning. You don't even want to know what goes on in some of those rooms." Toris laughed; strained, and humorless. "That's the only reason they put up with this damn cold weather! You wouldn't catch them dead in Siberia otherwise. And every now and again, Ivan likes to show off something new. A conquest. Looks like you're up this time. I hope you know how to waltz."

Conquest? Over his dead body.

Ludwig shuddered.

Oh god, had somehow known all along, had had a suspicion, a terror, but hadn't wanted to be right about it, but that was sure as hell what Toris was making it sound like.

Ivan's hands, always running over him.

Couldn't stop shuddering, just couldn't.

"Who says I'm going?" Ludwig finally retorted, petulantly, and Toris crossed his arms.

"Ivan."

And that, it seemed, was that. Ivan's word was law out here.

Whatever words Ludwig had were stifled when the door clicked open, and someone joined them. Looking over his shoulder in the mirror, Ludwig saw the boy that he had glimpsed several times, and for a moment he was going to raise his hand, to say hello. Why not?

Toris drew his attention quickly back by buckling a gun holster around his waist, and when he saw the glint of steel in the light, his breath left him.

A rush of hope. Desperation.

Until Toris said, curtly, "I really hope you don't think it's loaded."

His face fell.

Once it was hooked in, Toris raised his head, and studied him with an eagle eye. He made sure that everything was perfect, down to the gloss of his belt buckle and the smoothness of his pants, the neatness of his eyebrows, and Ludwig let him do as he would, feeling worn down and confused and halfhearted. Why was any of this necessary? What did it matter? Who cared?

He felt defeated. Tired. Wanted to go back to sleep.

Behind him, the boy suddenly came up to Toris' side and gazed up at them with awe, and then he reached out, taking handfuls of Toris' shirt and tugging him a bit eagerly.

"Toris! _Kogda ya poluchayo uniformu_?"

Ludwig looked down at him through the reflection in the mirror, and he was taken aback by the very adult look of resentment on the boy's face. He had the sudden urge to snip, 'What are _you_ staring at, you little brat?' but it seemed that Toris was just as irritated by him, and swatted him away like an annoying fly.

The kid frowned and skulked off, stomping his feet, and Ludwig asked, under his breath, "What did he say?"

Toris snorted.

"He wants a uniform so badly. But Ivan won't give him one until he's old enough. It drives him crazy." Ludwig barely suppressed a roll of his eyes, because _god_ , who would _want_ this? But Toris only shook his head, and added, lowly, "He doesn't speak German, but be careful how you act around him. It'll get back to Ivan, one way or another. He wants to impress him, you see. Wants a uniform so bad that I guess he thinks he'll get one if he does something worthwhile. Dumb kid. What's he know?"

Ludwig didn't respond, standing still as Toris straightened his collar and then picked lint from his shirt, and when Toris was satisfied, Ludwig finally looked at his reflection. What he saw there made his chest burn with hate. Despair. Hell, if he didn't know for a fact that it was _him_ there, he would not have recognized himself.

Who was that man?

Straight as an arrow and polished down to his cuticles, hair and hat perfectly perched and uniform absolutely pristine, he looked like the very definition of Soviet military. Looked like he belonged. Looked like a damn colonel. And he understood now what Toris had meant when he had said that no one would know he needed help. He looked just _like_ them. He looked like one of them. Just like them.

That man.

He suppressed the urge to reach out and shatter the mirror with his fist. Or _cry_.

Pitiful.

Toris saw him twitching, and sighed.

"Don't look so nervous," Toris said, more awkwardly than soothingly, and Ludwig could only stare over at him with complete hopelessness, and for a moment, just a moment, Toris' stern eyes dropped their guard. Reaching up to brush down the shoulders of the uniform absently, he added, "Just salute a lot, and act like you own the world, like I showed you, and you'll do fine. It won't be as scary as you think. It'll be alright. You'll do fine."

Ludwig wasn't comforted, and his look said as much. He just wanted everything to be over with. Wanted to go away, but didn't know where. Fade away.

Toris opened his mouth, but nothing came out, and he finally just shook his head and turned away.

A moment of silence.

Toris shrugged his shoulders, keeping his back towards Ludwig, and then he spoke up again.

"I don't know what else to say to you. I really don't. I'm not good at... _this_. All this. Telling someone what to do, and pretending that I know everything." He ducked his head, and for a moment Ludwig could see something breaking through that perpetual anger and agitation. A sudden slump of Toris' shoulders. "Hell, I'm used to Ivan making all of the decisions. What do I know? I don't know what to do. I just..."

Yeah.

...neither did he.

This wasn't quite like anything he had ever prepared for. Why couldn't he just go home?

Finally, Toris turned back around, mask firmly in place again as he squared up his shoulders.

"Ready? Let's go."

Ludwig, numb, stared firmly at the floor as he walked behind Toris, who led him suddenly along. This time, to the front door, but Toris didn't take him out right off. Oh no; wasn't done playing dress-up, apparently, and Toris forced him to stand there as he opened up a closet. Toris pulled out a fur coat, knee length, two pairs of gloves, two pairs of socks, and fur boots. He shoved them all at Ludwig in turn, and Ludwig, dazed and dumb, just threw on whatever Toris chucked at him.

Felt utterly foolish, so stupid, bundled up in that coat. Super warm, though, and that was nice.

Toris was dressing himself as equally heavily, and covered himself with layer after layer until only his eyes were visible. Impressive, how he squeezed that busted arm inside that coat. Must have hurt like hell. Ludwig admired Toris' fur hat, and waited to get his own. In that, he was disappointed, left with only his military cap. Guess they didn't have an extra to spare. Damn.

When Toris thought he was ready to face Siberia, briefly, he carried on.

A door opened, and Ludwig was outside. The first time since he had been here. The light hurt his eyes, for a moment, after being inside for so long, and he squinted.

White.

Painful, and not just the light hitting his sore eyes. Painful because the cold hit him so instantly and so powerfully, stopping him in place and forcing the air from his lungs.

It took a moment for his eyes to adjust, and then he could see. For all it mattered.

Snow.

Snow all around, the short trees nearby sagging down with the weight of it, everything was grey, the horizon pale and misty, and even though he had not yet seen the house from the outside, he didn't look over his shoulder as they walked down the steps. He didn't want to see his prison. Sometimes, it was better not to know. Instead, he kept his eyes on the car that was waiting in the drive, plumes of carbon monoxide floating through the freezing air, and even though he had only been out here for seconds, his ears and nose were numb.

A heavy fog hung all around them, making it hard to see even a meter in front of him.

A strange crackling sound, crunching, and it took Ludwig a long while to realize that it was coming from within his nose.

Toris glanced over at him, those eyes the only visible thing, and he said, helpfully, "That's your nasal cavity freezing. Cool, huh?"

No. Not cool.

...well, maybe a little.

Incredible.

It was so _cold_. He never knew there were places on earth that could be so cold. His eyelashes were getting stuck to his skin, frosting over. Could see the ice crystals forming on them and already obscuring his vision. How could anyone _live_ here? Just a damn minute, and he was already sticking to himself. And people _lived_ here—seemed crazy.

Toris led him along, and Ludwig was absolutely fascinated by Toris' eyelashes, white and covered with ice, growing longer and longer with every blink. It was a strange thought, perhaps, but it was kinda _pretty_ in a way. Toris had pretty eyes, as most people did really, and seeing them framed by long white lashes was quite entrancing.

Okay, it was _cool_. For a moment, if nothing else.

Then he was before the car, and Toris opened the door to the backseat.

Ludwig froze, and not from the cold.

Ivan was there in the back, smiling that ever present smile, well-groomed and wide awake, his own fur coat making him even bigger than he already was. Ivan's eyelashes were not icy, having likely already melted from the heat blasting in the car.

Ludwig hesitated, shifty and anxious, but Toris shoved him from behind and he had no choice but to step in. When he sat down, he scooted towards the window as close as he could, keeping his eyes everywhere but towards Ivan. No need to encourage him. Didn't wanna talk to him. Didn't even wanna look at him.

A lurch, and then they were moving. Toris had pulled down the layer covering his face as the ice melted from his skin, and Ludwig was once more fascinated as his own lashes melted. The ice in his nose became less painful. He was still freezing, though, having yet to warm up. He was still shivering. Was probably gonna die before they got there.

There was a shuffle at his side, and Ludwig dared himself to glance over. Probably shouldn't've. Ivan had scooted closer. No, oh no, not that. No way. Not knowing in some way now exactly what Ivan was interested in. Terrifying, humiliating, enough to make him sick.

Ludwig's brow came down, and he primly ignored Ivan when he said, cheerily, "Good morning!"

He didn't respond. That man scared the hell out of him.

A shift at his side, and with an iciness that had nothing to do with the temperature, Ludwig could feel Ivan leaning into his side, and he crooned again, "Good _morning_!"

Oh. _Please_. Couldn't stand it.

He caught Toris' eyes in the rearview mirror, and at Toris' worried gaze Ludwig could only duck his head and grumble, monotonously, "Morning."

Maybe it was better not to antagonize Ivan, even by just ignoring his greeting. Who knew what set Ivan off, anyway.

There were hands on his head suddenly, and Ludwig flinched back when Ivan removed his hat with eager hands. He nearly protested, because it was too damn cold to be without it, but then Ivan shoved another hat down onto him forcefully. He could feel that it was fur, and the flaps hanging down the side told him that it was an ushanka.

Well, he had gotten his fur hat, after all.

But when Ivan tied it together below his chin, Ludwig narrowed his eyes, feeling absolutely ridiculous. Looked so good on Toris, on Ivan, but now that it was on him he felt so stupid. He could have died for the shame. God, he could hear Alfred's voice in his ears.

_Better dead than Red!_

Musta looked so _stupid_.

"It's warmer," Ivan supplied, at his testy look, and scooted in ever closer. No escape. Couldn't stand the feel of Ivan, couldn't stand being touched like that. Had no choice, and the helplessness was stifling.

To take his mind off of the overwhelming presence, Ludwig turned his eyes to the window, and watched the road go by.

There was nothing. Only trees, and snow.

White-out.

It was so mercilessly cold (and indeed, the thermometer in the front of the vehicle clearly read negative forty-nine) and the road was coated with ice. They went along at a snail's pace, and every so often Toris would curse under his breath as the tires of the vehicle began to lock up and slide. Every time it happened, Ludwig threw out one hand to the windowsill and held on for dear life, his heart racing as Toris fought with the steering wheel, and oh god, he thought they would run off the road and roll over.

Then what? Freeze to death, no doubt.

But in the end, Toris beat the vehicle back into submission, clearly a master of driving on ice with even one hand, even in such fog, and when Ludwig looked over, Ivan only smiled. As though confident that nothing would go wrong, and he would place a hand on Ludwig's shoulder in what he may have thought was a comforting manner.

It was not. He felt sick.

Just wanted Ivan to stop touching him.

Even though they were going so slowly that Ludwig probably could have just opened the door and stepped out without even stumbling, there would simply be no jumping into this wintry hell. He had fallen victim to the mild snows of Brno, hadn't he, and how could he expect to overcome the wilderness of Siberia?

His uniform was itching terribly. He didn't dare move, though. The ushanka on his head was barely enough to keep the chill at bay, and he could not feel his nose.

Ivan saw him twitching this way and that, and leaned in, leering, "Are you cold?"

Ivan _knew_ he was, the bastard, but Ludwig shook his head nonetheless, leaning against the window and trying to convey that he was not interested in holding a conversation. Ivan started talking anyway, and Ludwig only half-listened, watching the gleaming snow go by.

"You'll like where we are going. It's pretty. Big ballroom, lots of music, a whole orchestra! All the vodka you can drink, dancing. You'll meet lots of important people." He reached out, and ran a gloved hand down the fur of the hat, and Ludwig shuddered when he leaned in and whispered, "All of them will watch you, you know, because you are so pretty. But don't worry, I won't let them come near you. I'll keep you safe."

He froze up, as usual, terrorized. Oh god, what did _that_ mean? He didn't have time to dwell on it, for Ivan leaned fully onto him, and wrapped him in his arms. His breath stopped, and he didn't _dare_ struggle, so intimidating was Ivan, but oh, god.

Coulda died.

Shame. Embarrassment. And above all, such hopelessness.

Terror.

This was _not_ what he had signed on for. None of this.

He was so frightened that his chest hurt, and he sensed something _horrible_ on the horizon, Ivan's arms locked around him so strongly that he could barely breathe. Wanted to cry suddenly, as frustration rose up beneath the fear. Was about to lose his mind.

This was not the agreement. This was not the deal. He had signed on to spend the rest of his life in some fuckin' prison.

Not this.

He was panicking. There was no room to escape when everything took a turn for the worse.

Couldn't stand Ivan _touching_ him.

The words were worse than the physicality, though, when Ivan spoke again.

Leaning down, Ivan rested his head on Ludwig's shoulder, so close that he could feel his warm breath on his cheek, and he whispered, in a voice so soft that he could scarcely hear it through the thick fur of the ushanka, "Your brother, Gilbert? He's so grateful you saved him, you know? He's living enough for both of you now. Parties. I bet he throws lots of parties, doesn't he? I know men like that. Ha, I bet he hardly even remembers you now, he's having so much fun! Guys like that, you know how they are. They only care about themselves. He forgot you the second he was back in the West."

The nerve. The fucking _nerve_!

Men like that.

Ludwig closed his eyes and bit his lip, longing to retort as the fire of anger lit up his cheeks, and he wanted so badly to tell Ivan what was what, that he _knew_ Gilbert. They were brothers, they were connected by so much more than blood, and Gilbert would _never_ forget him. Gilbert was probably sitting at home crying on Erzsébet's shoulder every night. There was no way he was out roaming nightclubs so soon after such a traumatic experience, because he _knew_ his brother.

Guys like that.

He knew his brother.

...didn't he?

Okay. So Gilbert had let him down a lot before. A _lot_. Gilbert had always been one of those 'guys like that'. Gilbert was a little crazy.

But this was something so different. Gilbert would never forget him. Not like that.

Gilbert would have done it for him.

"You were so brave! I could tell, when I first saw you, how brave you were. Not like him. He is a coward. He left you there, alone, didn't he? Abandoned you. You said you would do anything for him, but he wouldn't do _anything_ for _you_. He must not love you very much, if he gave up on you so easily! What kind of brother is that? What a shame, after all you did for him."

Despite it all, despite his resilience, the words stung.

Hurt.

His mind reeled. His head hurt. Wanted to go home.

Idiot. Ivan knew nothing. Not a thing. He didn't know Gilbert. Gilbert had raised him.

"He got into trouble, and he waited for you to come save him. I'm sure he did that a lot."

Gilbert had protected him.

"And when you rescued him, what did he do? How did he repay you?"

Gilbert _loved_ him.

"He isn't coming for you. You know that, don't you? That's why you are so angry, now, because he won't come for you like you came for him."

...but Gilbert had gone back to the world.

"But I would do anything for you. You left me on the train, remember, but I came back for you. I did not leave you behind to die in the snow. I came back. He won't."

And Ludwig was left in the dark.

"I came back. Your brother won't."

_Oh_.

Gilbert was gone. Gilbert had left so many times before, no matter how Ludwig had begged him to stay. Stubborn, proud Gilbert. Gilbert did stupid things sometimes. But not like this. How had it ever come to this?

The words made Ludwig so angry, stung so much, hurt so much, because when it was all said and done Ludwig couldn't deny the little bit of truth there. A man like Gilbert, when it really came down to it, could never be truly trusted. Not all the way. Ludwig had always known that, but had loved him anyway. Gilbert hadn't been a great guy, but Ludwig had loved him. Shouldn't that have been enough?

"He doesn't remember you."

He had not forgotten Gilbert.

"He doesn't love you."

Ludwig tried to shut down, to ignore Ivan's clever tongue, because they were only words, and what he and Gilbert had was far too strong to break so easily. Gilbert was gone, but not forgotten. Never would be.

He knew better than to listen.

But, _oh—_

The road was too long.

Gilbert wouldn't come back.


	12. Nightmarish Waltz

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**Chapter 12**

**Nightmarish Waltz**

As it turned out, at least one thing Ivan had said turned out to be true :

It was very pretty.

The road had seemed to go on for eternity, no doubt because of the languid pace of the vehicle, and it was not until the sun was beginning to settle over the West, a direction he yearned to continue heading, that they finally arrived in a small town.

It was quiet. Frozen. The buildings were very small and much, much older than the ones he had seen from the car in Mirny, and the trees here were older, too, taller and wider. The heavy fog had faded. Across the horizon, the clouds were lit up pink and gold and deep red. The wind was so strong that the mighty trees were almost doubled in the middle, and the car shook so hard that Ludwig was sure it would be pushed off the road.

Somehow, they made it, safe and sound.

...well.

Maybe not 'sound'. Not really a good word to use when Ivan was slumped against your side, sleeping away and leaving no room for escape.

Ludwig was glad when they started creeping into the icy little streets. He raised his eyes to the window, trying to ignore the sleeping Ivan, and observed the environment.

At the center of the town sat a massive building, made of washed-white stones, covered in so many windows that there was scarcely space between them, its roof covered in deep red tile that contrasted starkly with the darkening skies and pale surroundings. Before it was a great courtyard, full of shining black vehicles that were waxed to perfection, and hanging out at the door, cigarettes in mouth and seemingly immune to the cold, were two armed guards who came out at the sight of the new car.

Their guns gleamed in the last remnants of daylight.

And when Toris parked the car and got out, when Ivan woke up with a grunt and pushed open the back door and then dragged Ludwig out, when he was led to the door in a daze of pulse-racing adrenaline, when he was pulled through the doors and into a dimmed hallway lit up by low wall-lamps, when Toris hung back with a look of annoyance, Ludwig realized that he walked out of the dungeon and into the snake pit.

He couldn't breathe. A horrible sense of dread started to creep up.

The hallway was long and empty, on either side of him were great staircases that curved upward, their destinations unforeseeable, and at the other end stood a closed door.

From beneath it streamed a bright, white light.

The gate to hell, surely, for the way he felt.

As Ludwig stood frozen in mounting horror, Ivan's hand flew down and gripped his waist as though worried he would try to flee, and he flinched at the touch. Toris suddenly came over next to him ( _them_ ; they were standing so closely together that there was no shard of light passing between them for Ivan's iron grip) and crossed his arms.

Toris opened his mouth, but Ivan interrupted by saying, "Here."

Ivan's hands were suddenly upon Ludwig, removing his heavy coat and throwing it on Toris' arm, straightening the odd wrinkle in his uniform and untying his ushanka. Terrorized and helpless, Ludwig stood still as Ivan took his hat off and stuck it in Toris' waiting hand, and then somehow one-armed Toris finagled around and passed Ivan the military cap.

Ludwig could only stand there, passively, and allow Ivan to do as he would.

"It's not so cold in here," Ivan said, as he put the cap upon Ludwig's head and smoothed his hair meticulously, and it was with a low whisper that he added, "I want them to see how pale your hair is. And you look so... So..."

He trailed off, brow furrowed. Ivan muttered something under his breath and then turned to Toris, snipping, quickly, "Word?"

Toris, lips very nearly twitching into a sneer, only drawled, "Professional."

"Ah."

Ivan turned back, gripped Ludwig all the tighter, and with his other hand he bumped gently the top of Ludwig's head in what might have been affection.

"Right. You look so...professional."

Well, that may have been true, but he sure as hell didn't _feel_ that way.

He only averted his eyes as the anxiousness burned his chest, and then Toris finally spoke up.

"May I be _excused_?" he asked, voice low and clipped, and after a second of silence, Ivan reached up and waved his hand in the air dismissively. Toris inclined his head, turned on his heel, stepped onto a staircase, and then was gone.

And Ludwig couldn't even believe it.

Toris was gone. Toris had left Ludwig alone with the wolf. How could Toris have _left_ him? When he knew so well how helpless he felt? Toris had known all along how lost he was here. Toris was supposed to watch out for him, wasn't he? Toris had shown him emotion that morning that wasn't hatred, that wasn't anger, and Ludwig had thought, for just a moment, that Toris was going to look out for him.

Toris _left_ him.

No time to dwell on Toris' betrayal; Ivan turned him around again, and began to pull him not-so-gently to the door. Closer. He was so _nervous_. In arm's reach. The silver doorknob gleaming in the low light. He was going to vomit. Faint. Dizzy. Then Ivan reached out his hand, and pushed the door, and they crossed the threshold.

Time stopped.

His pupils constricted. A great burst of light. He froze up, momentarily blinded.

Ivan pulled him along. A final whisper.

"Don't be afraid."

His eyes adjusted to the light, Ivan's hand tightened, he was tugged forward, and time sped back up.

And suddenly everything was loud and noisy and vibrant and _alive_ , and the dramatic change in atmosphere made Ludwig's head swim. There was music in the background. Everything was red. A flurry of bright color. The room was full of people. Voices. Laughter. So many people. He had not seen so many people since he had left Berlin behind. Certainly not in Ivan's quiet, calm, empty house, not out in those desolate forests.

Such unforgiving cold, and yet so many people were here.

The smoke of cigars hit him hard, and the headache was intense.

Ivan led him into the midst of it all with a high chin, and never for one second did he release the grip he had on Ludwig's waist. Ludwig could have just keeled over dead then from the panic alone, too high on the terror to be mortified by Ivan holding him like that. The noises filled his ears and hurt his head. He had gotten used to silence. Now he was surrounded on all sides by people, and felt more than overwhelmed.

Ivan coming into the room seemed to be an exciting event for an already exciting scene. His party, after all.

Men came up and threw heavy hands down on Ivan's shoulder, shouting coarse greetings in Russian. Others kissed his cheek. Other still pressed their foreheads into his with rough words, and Ivan's confident smile never faltered, quite at home in the middle of constant attention. Looked content and bolstered. Stimulated by his own worth.

It struck Ludwig like a bolt of lightning then, as the Soviet military stopped in its tracks in Ivan's wake, just how _influential_ Ivan was. How powerful. Had known all along of course that he was powerful, but to see it like this, to truly understand the scope of Ivan's control, his authority and command; Ludwig was honestly running out of words that adequately described 'terror' and 'horror'.

Ivan suddenly seemed all the more intimidating and inescapable for it. How could anyone ever get away from a man like this? Ludwig truly was Ivan's prisoner, just hadn't been so blatantly obvious these past weeks.

Someone took Ivan's hand in a firm grip, and then looked at _him_ , and smiled. A glance towards Ivan, and a knowing smile, and then he was offered a hand.

A jolt of fear.

The first rush of absolute adrenaline. Someone had noticed him. What to do. Not much, actually, not with Ivan's iron hand on his waist, keeping him in place.

Ludwig broke free of his daze and took the offered hand, nodding his head with mechanical politeness, and Ivan's smile widened to show his high, gawky canines as others came forward, curious about the new man on Ivan's arm.

Everyone wanted to meet him. Everyone wanted to see him.

It was simultaneously thrilling and horrifying to be the center of attention. The most exhilarating moment of his life.

The handshakes never seemed to stop.

It made him dizzy, whirling through clouds of cigar smoke and women in beautiful dresses and fur shawls, military men in full uniform with folded ushankas laughing to their officers, tables full of poker chips and bottles of vodka, the ceiling higher than heaven and just as bright from the crystal chandeliers, and all the while the orchestra below was strumming out wondrous Viennese waltzes and tangos and foxtrots. The room was warm, the walls coated in deep-red velvet panels to hide old wallpaper, the tablecloths a vibrant crimson, the carpet a dark burgundy, and out beyond the mess of tables there was a great dance floor; polished, stained oak.

A far cry from those dull, dreary days in Berlin, stuck at Gilbert's side as he crawled through dark bars.

A dumb thought swam in his head : 'Why didn't Toris wanna be here?'

An environment like this was certainly intoxicating. Toris must have been a stick-in-the-mud.

His second dumb thought was : 'Ivan's going to get himself shot.'

The Soviet Union was notorious for many reasons, and one of them was the eagerness with which they shot men that liked to be a little too _friendly_ with other men. Ivan flaunted himself and his obvious inclinations so fearlessly, so boldly. Wasn't he afraid of being executed? Being inside of his own prison? It had all been coming together in Ludwig's head, about Ivan, hard not to realize it the way he spoke to and looked at Ludwig. It had always been rather obvious, yes, but Ludwig had been in very deep denial. Had to admit it, at last. Knew that Ivan wasn't what the USSR would consider a normal and worthy man. So Ludwig didn't get it. Didn't understand. Didn't understand how Ivan was yet so powerful and so impervious, despite being so openly audacious in front of these other men. How Ivan was so able to hold onto power while being less than secretive about his lifestyle in a land where no one could be abnormal.

But then...

Toris had said that there were no laws here, no rules, and it was incredibly likely that these men in this room had their own particular illegal vices that Ivan allowed and ignored, as that poker table obviously implied, and so did they in turn ignore Ivan's fancies. Nothing new to anyone in that room, that much was clear, from the way they just leered at Ludwig.

Ludwig was just the new fancy, apparently.

Nausea.

He was twirled and dragged this way and that, and every time he was swirled around there was someone new to meet. Generals, officers, colonels, lieutenants, majors, every class of Soviet military, and then he met their wives, their mistresses, their escorts, hell, even their damn drivers. And they came from everywhere, like Toris had said. He heard clumsy German from some, Hungarian and Polish from a few, Russian from the others, and Ivan spoke to some of them in heavy English, and to each and every one of them Ivan would thrust Ludwig forward and say, eagerly, 'So-and-so, meet Colonel Müller, from the GDR.'

Müller?

That was the best Ivan could come up with in all this time? He had hoped for something more...dramatic. König, maybe, or Von Falkner. Not that it mattered, but, _oh_ , he had to keep his mind occupied with _something_ other than what was going on around him, and even when he saluted that automatic salute that Toris had beaten into his head in the presence of superiors, Ivan's hand was still stuck firmly around his waist. Absolutely mortifying; everyone he met would look down at Ivan's hand, then send him the strangest of smiles, as if they just knew that something was _off_ , and Ludwig felt the flush of red on his cheeks as he was torn away and presented to another.

It was relentless. They just kept coming.

The whole time, Ivan just smiled. As if he owned the world entire.

Ludwig could really only go along with him, and just pretend. What else could he do? All of these military men around, it wasn't like he could just turn around and punch Ivan in the nose and try to run. Couldn't throw Ivan's hand off of his waist right there in front of such a huge audience and tell Ivan that he was not like that. Couldn't do anything to shame Ivan at his own party, at least not if Ludwig wanted to stay very much alive, which he _did_ , thanks a lot.

He was stuck.

...punching Ivan would have broken his hand more than Ivan's face. Damn.

An hour passed; Ivan wanted him to meet _everyone_ , every single person in that room. Ludwig's damn arm was already sore from shaking hands.

There was a snag halfway down the road, however, and one of the men that Ivan led him up to turned around, glass in hand, and looked Ludwig up and down with a very critical eye. Ludwig held out his hand, mindlessly, but as soon as the word 'GDR' had dropped from Ivan's lips, the man lowered his eyes to Ludwig's hand, and wrinkled his nose.

Ludwig knew _that_ look.

Then the officer met Ivan's eyes, grunting something in Russian, and Ludwig could tell from his tone alone that it was _not_ polite. That seemed rather audacious, to be brave enough to rebut Ivan in front of all these people. For a second, there was something shifting in Ivan's gaze, and his smile no longer showed his teeth. His fingers contracted on Ludwig's waist painfully, but then the man turned and stalked off, throwing harsh words over his shoulder, and Ivan stood completely still.

Almost in disbelief.

The horror that had been slowly evaporating came rushing back up as Ivan's smile fell a little more, and Ludwig could already sense the sinking of the ship. If Ivan snapped, then he sure as hell didn't want to be anywhere nearby. A dangerous stirring of rage beneath Ivan's tranquil surface, and Ludwig said, lowly, in a lame attempt to prevent a possible explosion, "Well! No matter. What did he say?"

Ivan looked down at him, pale eyes burning, and only shook his head.

Ludwig hadn't taken it too much to heart. He assumed right off that that one man just happened to be of the Soviet mind that a man like Ivan (and, well, _Ludwig_ , because after all it would be incorrectly assumed with Ivan's hand on his waist) was not right. That was all.

But Ludwig's inquiry did not go unanswered.

"He said," came a new voice from the side, and Ludwig turned to see a tall, very rough-looking man smoking a cigar standing next to him, "'I won't touch the hand of any goddamn, dirty _fashisty_.' You say, perhaps, fascist?" He trailed off, and lowered his cigar, adding, with a glance at Ivan, "I won't tell you what else he said. It would be obscene to say such things aloud."

His jaw clenched.

Ludwig turned his eyes back straight ahead, pretending to be unfazed even though the words burned him, and the agitation flowed in his veins like alcohol. He was alarmingly aware of the flush of red that was creeping up from his collar and onto his face, despite his best efforts at calm.

Anger.

Strange; had been unbothered at his initial assumption, because an insult to Ivan was not an insult to Ludwig, but this was different. He took it to heart then, did he ever, and the fury was undeniable.

Fascist? He had spent his entire life in the West, in an atmosphere of lingering aggression towards the Nazi regime, had spent so long living with the shame of that. Had grown up not being allowed to be proud of his country for fear of being called just that. And for it, he hated _that_ word, more than any other. Being called a fascist was not something Ludwig took lightly; Alfred had learned that after a bad Nazi joke had ended with Ludwig nearly in tears. Still too close to home. The Germans were struggling to reclaim their identity, to distance themselves from the shameful Third Reich, and Ludwig was no exception.

Hurt, that he couldn't love his country without having to explain _why_.

He hated that word.

Let that man come back and say it to his face again, and see whose hand touched who.

His head was hurting worse than ever.

Ah. Maybe it didn't matter anyway. The feeling was mutual, and he disliked Soviets, so they were, perhaps, even. He was a fascist? Let someone else say it more than some damn Red. Communist son of a bitch. While they painted this frozen town up red, West Germany was thriving. Let them keep their snow huts. Millions in the Soviet Union were starving to death, and the West was rising.

With those rather hostile thoughts in his head, Ludwig felt a little better.

Sounded like something Gilbert or Alfred would say, and no doubt they had been the ones to put those thoughts there in the first place.

Couldn't help it. So mad. So jittery. Anxious.

Felt sick.

Couldn't stand the feel of Ivan's hand, and was helpless to escape it.

Before Ludwig could die of too much emotion, Ivan was suddenly pulling him along again, and resumed his introductions as if nothing had happened at all.

It felt like it lasted an eternity, the anger ever receding as he went, and when finally there was no one else to meet, Ivan dragged him over to a table and pushed him down into a chair. The flowers in the vase were as vibrant crimson as the tablecloth, and when Ivan uncapped the vodka and poured it into a small, fluted glass and pushed it in front of him, Ludwig grabbed it up and put it back with one tilt of his head.

He needed all the help he could get. His head was spinning. His skin was always crawling under Ivan's palm.

Ivan poured him another, he took it quickly, and the whole while Ivan watched him with an almost curious intensity. Leering more than a little. Ludwig looked over when Ivan finally poured himself a glass, and even though his face was relaxed and calm, there was still something sharp and dangerous in his eyes. Still brooding, no doubt. Plotting ways to right this wrong.

Yeah, good luck to _that_ guy once Ivan got him alone.

The last man on Earth Ludwig would have ever had the balls to cross.

Someone suddenly stood in front of him, and when Ludwig looked up, a bit anxiously, he recognized the man who had answered his quiet question.

"May I sit?" he asked with a smile, but he didn't wait for Ludwig to answer before he pulled out a chair, and he extended his hand. "Major Pavlov. Remember?"

Ludwig nodded, taking the hand, although having absolutely no intentions whatsoever of remembering this man when everything was said and done. Ludwig's only thought then was to try and remember if a major was above or below a colonel, and how much respect he needed to show.

The major smiled, and inclined his head towards Ivan, who only shrugged. They sat in a moment of silence, as Ivan refilled the glasses with a strange half-smile. Communicating silently, no doubt, although they had a language they could have used just as easily had they wanted to keep Ludwig in the dark.

The man before him, observing him, finally spoke.

"Colonel Müller," he drawled, cigar in hand as the silver fur of his ushanka gleamed in the light, "From the GDR, eh? You look like a very, ah, how do you say, _stern_ man. Very tough. Very strict." Ludwig watched him, and made no effort to disprove this statement, keeping his eyes cool and narrowed and body stiff and looking very much like the 'asshole' that Alfred had always called him. "Tell me, Colonel, how do you handle such insubordination as that?"

He waved his hand over across the room, towards the officer that had refused Ludwig's handshake, and the expectant smile on his face made Ludwig shudder.

Oh, god, he was gonna choke.

A second of absolute terror, as his mind whirred away, and it was a thought more horrifying than any, thinking about what he could possibly say to this man that wouldn't give him away. Thinking about what would happen if he did choke, if he embarrassed Ivan.

What would Toris say? Toris, Toris, pretend to be Toris, pretend to be Toris, had to think like that miserable bastard _Toris_.

Fashisty.

Sure.

Like Toris.

Feeling somewhat aggressive still and knowing that Ivan was watching him and expecting, Ludwig leaned across the table and said, as casually as he could for the tremor in his voice, "Major, I don't know how your camp does things, but I would have my _Stasi_ remove his hand. One finger at a time, of course. Then he won't have to worry about shaking anyone's hand."

The words were stern, but his heart was thudding in his chest. He worried that they would sense it, and pounce. He _looked_ like them, yeah he did, but he was not the same. They could probably see it, too. He could say the words, but he couldn't ever mean them. Couldn't have ever backed them up.

Didn't have to, that time; for a second the major sat still, but then he threw back his head and laughed, and Ivan laughed too.

Ludwig did not.

Sure hoped Ivan was proud of him, though. Or else.

Somehow, though...

"Very good!"

The way the major looked at him, somehow, someway, Ludwig knew that he had been had. That the major could see the fear there. That the major had heard the tremble in his voice. Could see it on his face.

Mercifully, if only for Ivan, it was ignored.

Ivan reached out and placed a rather gentle hand on Ludwig's shoulder, and leaned forward, saying to the major, "Ah, this is where Colonel Müller and I, eh, disagree. You see, he would take the hand of the officer; I would take the hand of his wife. Wife? Right word? That way he suffers more, you see, and every time he helps her from their car he must sit her on the left side, so she does not her lose her, what's the word, _balance_ by leaning too far to the right."

They laughed some more, Ivan barked something out in Russian and poured them all another round, and Ludwig only stared blankly ahead, knowing somehow that behind the metaphor of the officer and his wife there was himself, and Gilbert. Ivan was clever and subtle with his words, even in a language he struggled with, but Ludwig was too sharp and scared to miss it.

The unspoken conclusion was that, for every time Ludwig acted out, Ivan's punishment would cross many borders and fall on Gilbert.

Gilbert. That stupid man.

And that was why Ludwig sat here now, wasn't it, doing everything Ivan wanted of him. That was why he sat here in this ridiculous uniform, wearing this ridiculous hat, confirming this ridiculous façade of a colonel, listening to these ridiculous men speak, and playing with disgusting efficiency the role of the belle of this ridiculous ball. That was why he didn't move every time Ivan ran hands over him, despite the horror. Couldn't move, couldn't flinch. Had to suffer it, had to abase and humiliate himself.

For Gilbert's sake. Always for Gilbert's sake. His entire _life_ , for Gilbert's sake.

Stupid.

Ludwig took another shot, wincing as it burned his throat, and it was with relief that he finally felt the first splash of warmth. The first stirrings of tipsiness. About time. Ivan smiled at him in amusement as Ludwig's eyelids lowered and lowered in intoxication, and seemed content with where Ludwig was on the scale of drunkenness. Didn't refill his glass that time.

Not yet; Ludwig met Ivan's eyes, pointedly, and pushed his glass forward.

Ivan barked another laugh, nearly snorting, and poured him another. And another.

Ludwig took them.

Always for Gilbert's sake. Gilbert's constant fuck-ups had always fallen back on him. The story of his life. Gilbert had never been anything but trouble.

Another glass. He took that one, too. He had a feeling he would need much more to survive this night, and if Ivan wanted to keep his hands moving with no resistance, then he better keep vodka on him at all times.

Was going to turn Ludwig into an alcoholic at this rate.

Zoning out as the major and Ivan began to hold a conversation in Russian, Ludwig rested an elbow on the table, watching the room with only the faintest of recognition.

Such a grand party.

Ivan's words from the journey here were rising back up in his head.

Men like these. Men like Gilbert. Gilbert would have been right at home with these thugs, would have overshadowed even Ivan and probably would have been the life of the party. Would have immersed himself in this lawlessness and would have had the ability to somehow exacerbate it.

Was Gilbert at such a party right now? Was he sitting at a table with people he did not really know, drinking shot after shot as music played and people danced? If so, were his eyes following people with active interest? Did he engage well in conversation? Did he laugh sincerely? Did his smile reach his eyes?

If Gilbert was partying and drinking, as Ivan had suggested, then Ludwig could have easily forgiven it if only it were a desperate attempt to fight off depression. If only he drank shot after shot, not hearing the music that played and staring past the people he sat with. If his eyes were cloudy and unfocused. If he responded to conversation with simple shrugs and nods. If his laughter was forced and fake. If his smile foundered halfway.

Anything that would suggest that his mind was still on his brother.

But if Gilbert was _really_ having fun, so soon, and thought no more of him...

He couldn't bear that.

He had given up everything; the least Gilbert could do was be miserable for the rest of his pitiful life.

Maybe it was selfish of him—it _was_ selfish, he was certain—because, after all, hadn't his sacrifice been for just that purpose? Had he not offered himself in his brother's place so that Gilbert could go back home and resume life as normal? Hadn't that been what he had wanted? Maybe he was as horrible a person as Ivan was. For wanting Gilbert to be caught up in a wave of despair, replaying the past over and over again until he went crazy, for wanting his brother to be as hopeless as he himself was, for wanting his brother to live the rest of his life in a miserable grey fog, like _he_ was doomed to.

That wasn't fair. He was selfish.

Ashamed for thinking such terrible things, Ludwig came back to reality with a lurch of regret. Easy to be bitter, but that hadn't ever been him. Better not to think about it at all. When his eyes cleared, he saw that the major had gone, and the bright lights of before had gone down to a mere dim. He looked up at a great clock on the wall. Almost midnight. He had been out in space for some time.

He missed Gilbert. He wanted Gilbert to miss him. Was that so much to ask?

Fair...? Who really cared about what was _fair_? Gilbert never had, and Ivan didn't. Why should Ludwig be held to a higher standard? Wanted Gilbert to be miserable, no matter how hard he denied it, because that would have been a little fair, and if not fair then it would have been satisfying.

"Thought I lost you, for a minute there," came a heavy whisper at his side, and when he turned, he was nearly nose to nose with Ivan.

He shivered. As usual.

Too close. Ludwig felt himself lean back, just a bit, but Ivan was too nearby to really evade. Ivan only reached out and brushed the line of Ludwig's jaw with a balled fist, though, almost a gentle bump of camaraderie, and Ludwig realized that Ivan had a very good head-start down the road of drunkenness. It was almost a relief, because a drunk Ivan was an Ivan that could possibly be outmaneuvered, if need be.

For one thing or another. Yikes.

Then again, he realized, as the heat ran through his veins, maybe he wasn't that much better off. Probably would have stumbled over his own feet had he tried to evade Ivan. Would have wound up in his arms one way or another.

A churn of his stomach at the thought.

Ivan stared at him, chin held up in his palm, a smile on his face. What the hell was he thinking? Who could ever say. Ludwig couldn't stand that gaze, if only because he couldn't really figure it out. He broke away and looked around, helplessly.

Oh, Toris. Fuckin' Toris. Where was Toris? Why could they not just lead Ivan upstairs to sleep off the vodka, and when he passed out, they could both creep down the stairs in the dead of night and get in the car and drive away, not stopping for anything until they reached the last border of the Eastern Bloc, and he could go _home_.

Toris. Needed that bastard now, more than he needed anyone.

"Do you waltz, Ludwig?"

The whisper caught him off guard, and Ludwig glanced over to where Ivan sat, swirling a half-empty glass in his hand as he stared across the table unabashedly. Ludwig lowered his brow in annoyance, and when Ivan's lips turned up into a warm leer, he turned his head away. Heart racing, he muttered, primly, "I don't dance."

His hands were already shaking.

Alone with a drunk Ivan; a nightmare he had never known he had.

"Oh? That's a shame," Ivan grunted, and finished off his drink with a tossed head. Slamming the glass onto the table with a wince, he turned his attention back to Ludwig, and the pink flush on his cheeks gave away his intoxication. Daring himself another quick glance, Ludwig could not help but shudder under his heavy, prying gaze, knowing full well, for once, exactly what was running through Ivan's mind as he looked him up and down.

No amount of social ineptitude could have hidden the intention of _that_ look.

The helplessness was suffocating. The vodka wasn't even helping then, the tipsiness wasn't saving him from feeling that horror like it was supposed to.

"Maybe a _private_ lesson would make you feel less...how do you say? Uncomfortable?"

Oh, right! Ludwig was pretty sure that if Ivan got him alone in a room, the dance Ivan tried wouldn't be a waltz, and it wouldn't be vertical. God almighty! He shuddered, and tried to keep his eyes from drifting back to Ivan.

Frustration came surging up, and for a stupid moment there, as Ludwig looked around the room in a panic, he felt his eyes sting and he almost started crying. Pushed it down quickly enough, but the urge to flee was ever rising. Couldn't—nowhere to _go_.

Prisoner.

"No, thank you," Ludwig finally ground out, and Ivan leaned back, eyes lidded and brow high.

And then Ivan started laughing, and Ludwig felt the adrenaline in his veins when he reached out and grabbed up his hand within his own. Like school kids. Shameful. Alfred had grabbed Ludwig's hand frequently, but that had been worlds different, no comparison at all, because Ludwig was very certain that Alfred had never had sinister motivations. This felt so underhanded, although it seemed like such an innocent thing.

Turning his head, Ivan acknowledged a different table, and said, voice slurred, "Do you see that table there? Do you know what they are doing?"

Ludwig looked, despite himself, and saw four men with cards in hand, empty bottles strewn all about. Walking around them all, bathed in the cloud of smoke, was a beautiful dark-haired woman, her expensive jewelry sparkling in the light, dress long and fur shawl shimmering. A lovely woman, for sure, and she circled them all, reaching out and placing her hand down upon each of their shoulders in turn, perhaps as Lady Luck.

Ludwig could only shrug a shoulder, his attention more focused on _Ivan's_ hand around his own. It was heavy. Warm. Bigger than his own. Rough.

Inescapable. Terrifying. Domineering.

"Poker. So?"

"Ah," Ivan said, and now he met Ludwig's eyes with a frightening smile. "They are playing very, very, what's the word? High-stakes? Very high-stakes. You see that man there—" he pointed "—that man is a Romanian captain. That woman is his mistress. He ran out of money, so do you know what he bet? He bet her." Ludwig's adrenaline rush slowed into a cold dread, and Ivan continued, nonchalantly, "Here, for tonight, you can bet _anything_ you want."

It occurred to Ludwig, so dumbly, that the words Ivan had chosen to learn during his study of the German language were very telling to his lifestyle. Didn't know how to say 'professional', barely knew the word for 'wife', and yet knew how to talk about poker, knew how to talk about removing hands, knew how to talk about partying and 'men like that'.

Could tell so much about a person, perhaps, by the first words they learned of a new language.

A sudden cheer, and a man at the table threw down his cards victoriously. The woman came up behind him, placing her pretty hands on his broad shoulders, and the defeated Romanian captain took a shot of vodka with a groan, looking only moderately disappointed. Just business as usual, as the woman ( _his_ woman) laid hands upon another.

What was wrong with these people?

"You see the corporal just won her, don't you? Now, she is his property. They'll spend all night up in a room—" They stood, the corporal leading the woman towards the door, and then they were gone. "—and in the morning, do you know who she goes home with?"

Good god, what was _wrong_ with these _people_?

Could barely find air all of a sudden.

Numb and horrified, Ludwig could only whisper, voice barely audible above the chatter, "The corporal?"

Ivan seemed amused then, like Ludwig was a little kid that had said something silly.

"No. The captain! You see, Ludwig—I love saying your name, I really do, it's so pretty isn't it—whatever happens tonight is law. But, in the morning, everything goes back to normal, and everyone goes back to where they belong as if nothing had happened. But when they're here, it's their own private play-land. Whatever they could want. Anything goes tonight. Anything. Just fun. People just like to have fun. Tonight, we pretend the world is gone. No Soviet Union. Just fun."

Fun? Hardly seemed fun to him. Seemed rather atrocious.

Ivan paused, running his thumb absently against the top of Ludwig's hand, and then he snorted.

"You know, I bet Toris once!"

Ludwig froze up at his casual words, heart stopping and breath leaving him. Honest to god thought he had misheard, and Ludwig uttered, weakly, "What?"

"I bet Toris. I ran out of money. I had bad luck that night. So, what could I do? Toris was...what the hell was he...a junior lieutenant or something back then, I can't remember. The men were just sergeants and privates, so they played for Toris. Everyone likes to get one over on their superior from time to time. Right?"

Had anyone ever gotten one over on Ivan? Ludwig highly doubted it.

Ludwig just stared at Ivan, eyes wide and brow low, pulse pounding and feeling rather ill.

_Christ_ , he would not wish such a thing on his worst enemy. Never, not that. He could see it up in his head then, angry Toris, arms crossed and sneering away as he watched the game unfold, standing behind Ivan, looking down at his cards from behind and praying, praying, that Ivan had a damn good hand. Doubted that Toris had circled that table like the woman had. Had probably been pale and jittery.

"But lucky for him," Ivan said, with a sickening seriousness, " _I_ won that time."

Was it lucky? Didn't want to know the rest of the story, fuckin' god, didn't wanna know what had happened afterwards. Felt so sick, so dizzy, so _scared_ , above all else.

Shit. No wonder Toris hadn't wanted to be here tonight. Toris leaving him seemed less treacherous, suddenly.

Ludwig's breath stopped quickly enough when Ivan leaned in and whispered, "I could bet _you_ , if I wanted to."

There was no humor in his voice. The thumb kept on swirling around on the top of his hand.

An awful rise of nausea, brought on by searing adrenaline and too much vodka.

Oh. He just wanted to go _home_.

Past his rising urge to throw up or cry, Ludwig could only smile breathlessly over and assure himself that Ivan could bet him all he wanted to, alright, but he would kill or be killed before he was led away to an upstairs room or out into the backseat of some car.

Go ahead and try. Try it.

Ivan leaned in farther, reaching up and taking Ludwig's collar into his great hand, and he was so close that Ludwig could feel his breath on his eyelashes as he added, "But I wouldn't. Not _you_. Betting you would be too grand a prize, you see, because you're beautiful, and a German. A colonel. Who bets a colonel?" He released Ludwig's collar and fell back into his chair, looking very flustered and dizzy, and it was with a sloppy smile that he took up another shot. "Around here, a German goes for a lot more than a Pole or a Serb, or even a Hungarian. I wouldn't bet you, anyway. Too pretty. What can I say? Maybe I'm a jealous man." His hands fell into his lap, and for a moment, he looked almost like a child. Smiling eagerly, cheeks flushed and his cap lopsided, chest heaving with deep breaths as he fought with intoxication, eyes lit up and curious and maybe amused.

Even now, even in that easy-going state, Ivan was still frightening. The most terrifying man to ever walk this planet. Of that, Ludwig was certain.

In that moment, trapped there at that table with this drunk Red soldier, Ludwig felt very much like a piece of property. Just a paper, upon which sat Ivan's fuckin' signature. A declaration of ownership.

It sometimes still hit Ludwig hard that he was so powerless here. Ivan could have pressed his gun into Ludwig's head and shot him right there, had he been so inclined, and it would be like it had never happened, because Ivan could do what he wanted. Because Ludwig was nothing, nobody. It was somehow staggering to him that his life out here had absolutely no value, that he had no human rights, no basic respect. That Ivan could have done anything at all he wanted to Ludwig, and Ludwig couldn't _do_ anything about it. That he no longer abided by society and laws that were there to protect him; he was at the mercy of a man, one man, and that man happened to be insane. Ivan could do what he wanted with Ludwig, because as far as Ivan and these lands were concerned, Ludwig was just property.

The worst feeling.

And then Ivan pulled himself unsteadily to his feet, standing tall and imposing above, and extended a hand.

"Come dance with me."

Ludwig didn't even have time to respond before Ivan had reached down and grabbed his upper arm, pulling him to his feet with one mighty tug. The movement made him dizzy. Shouldn't have drank so much.

With surprisingly steady hands, Ivan took his hat off and then took the cap from Ludwig's head and set them down upon the table, leaving Ludwig feeling somewhat exposed and vulnerable, and maybe a little less intimidating to those in the room. Ivan's gloves joined the abandoned hats, and, with a firm grip, Ivan began to drag him down to the dance floor. Ludwig tried damn hard to dig his heels in the carpet and keep himself back, but Ivan was too strong.

Oh, _please_ —

Even now, even here, Ludwig still looked around in a daze, waiting for someone to come save him.

But as he looked around, he realized that all of the tables were now empty; everyone was down at the end of the room, in front of the orchestra, and oh g _od_ , he would die of embarrassment if Ivan led him out there and tried to dance with him in front of those people. He'd keel over dead in mortification. The shame alone would have been unbearable.

"I don't how to dance," he hissed, lowly and desperately, feeling the humiliation growing, and he tried to break away. For a second, Ivan stopped in his tracks, and looked back at Ludwig with a sharp frown, as though he could not understand his reluctance. Irritated, maybe, that Ludwig wasn't doing what he said.

Disobedient.

A moment of silence, and then Ivan's smile returned with full force and a look of understanding.

"You are worried," he said, and reached down, taking his hand and squeezing it. "Don't be scared! I'll show you how, it's easy."

No, wait, not what he had meant.

Ivan looked around for who knew what, and then he began to pull Ludwig back towards the front of the room, past the empty tables and close to the first doors Ludwig had come through earlier in the evening. The light was much dimmer and there were no people. The doors were shut. Only empty space, and Ludwig realized that he would not escape the inevitable, as Ivan came to a halt and then pulled him in front of him so that they were face to face.

_Wished_ somebody would have come and saved him. Would have taken anyone, anyone at all.

Toris. Where was Toris?

His heart started up its mad dash.

For a terrible moment, Ludwig could only think about how utterly _absurd_ this whole situation was, and how, if they could have seen him standing here in this uniform, with Ivan's left hand on his waist and right hand intertwining in his fingers, Gilbert would have started crying in distress, Alfred would have started shrieking in horror, Roderich would have dropped on the floor dead from a heart-attack, and Erzsébet would have only shaken her head in complete disbelief. And they all would have been _so_ ashamed. So ashamed. He could have never shown his face again. They would have shunned him. Such disgrace. Oh, no. No. He missed them. _Oh_ , wasn't there _anyone_ out there that missed him, too? Would they reject him for this? Just for this.

They had loved him once. He still loved them.

Didn't want this, and hoped that they would know it somehow.

Ivan brought him back to earth by pulling him in as closely as possible, forcing their chests together, and whispering, "It will be harder on carpet, but I think it should be okay. Just listen to the music, and I will lead. Here, put this hand up, on my shoulder. We'll wait for the next one to start."

Ludwig could only stand there, feeling so _stupid_ , heart racing in anticipation as Ivan listened to the music and waited, and then there was a final clash, and then a silence. Had no choice but to obey, because Ivan's gun was always gleaming there in his belt. Had no rights here, after all, and so he couldn't say 'no'. He wasn't really a person. A slave to Ivan's whims.

His hands were trembling so hard that Ivan must have felt it. So scared. Had never danced in his life, and never wanted to dance at all with this man that he feared. How stupid he felt, how ridiculous he must have looked, held up so intimately against a man more than a decade older than he was and in this uniform. How odd, though, that Ivan even knew how to waltz. A man like that; didn't seem like it would be of interest.

Ludwig looked off dazedly to the orchestra, as the violinists were tuning their instruments and people chattered, and Ivan only waited patiently, handsome smile ever present. So stupid. His hand up there on Ivan's broad shoulder, his other clenched within Ivan's hot one. Helpless. Humiliated. He felt himself shivering. Not from the cold. A sudden clamor, and then the music started back up.

Ivan started moving.

And it was the most godawful terrifying moment of his entire life, dancing with that man. Dancing with this man, this man that had wrenched Gilbert right out of his arms. Dancing was being generous of course. Ludwig was just being dragged clumsily along.

Ivan pulled him slowly at first, and kept his eyes on Ludwig's feet, quick to correct. "Be less nervous. You're not moving fast enough." He wasn't, for every time Ivan moved he was getting faster and faster, and Ludwig struggled to match his pace, clumsy and unbalanced.

Damn.

Had never in his life felt such utter humiliation.

Dancing had never been an interest for him. His skills lied in the intellectual and efficient, on creating routines and plans, not on grace and elegance. He preferred the complexity and delicacy of international negotiations as opposed to the complexity and delicacy of waltzes and the strings of violins. Roderich and Erzsébet were wonderful dancers; Ludwig had watched them, sometimes, in their more relaxed moments, and the speed and ease with which they had moved had seemed out of reach for his heavy feet. Roderich had taught him many things, but waltzing was not one of them. Roderich had known all along that Ludwig just wasn't cut out for that.

He stumbled. Ivan was quick to chide.

"Listen to the music," Ivan repeated, and Ludwig closed his eyes, brow furrowed. Not because he was actually listening to the music or focusing, but because if he kept looking at Ivan he was going to lean over and throw up. Listen to the fuckin' _music_ —what the hell? That wasn't helping. What the fuck did that even _mean_? Didn't understand what Ivan meant. Music was music. Great to listen to, but if there was something there that was supposed to be guiding him, then he needed it to be a little more obvious.

"How?" Ludwig finally muttered, sick and nervous, and Ivan leaned down, pressing their cheeks together. His breath was warm and laced with vodka, and Ludwig turned his head away as far as he dared.

"The violin is the leader. Listen to it, not the others. When it goes fast, so do you. It slows, so do you. It's easy once you get it. Just listen to the violins."

Ivan made it sound so easy.

Yeah, right. What a damn liar. This was hardly easy for him.

Just wanted to squirm away and go sit back down and bury his face in his arms and cry, but Ivan's grip was iron, so Ludwig could only inhale to steady himself and try to concentrate. Couldn't be so vulnerable around this wolf. So, despite the knowledge that he would fail, Ludwig tried to 'listen' to the music and figure out whatever Ivan expected him to know.

A shift in the violin's pitch suddenly, and Ivan moved his foot, and then the other, Ludwig memorized it and then moved his, and then suddenly they had moved together without Ivan pulling him. The hand clenching his own relaxed, just a bit, and suddenly things were going much more smoothly, and Ludwig _had_ it. He had it. Remarkably. Found the pattern, and he had it. Had memorized Ivan's movements and emulated them.

Thought he heard Ivan snort.

Tried so hard then to pretend he was somewhere else, eyes stubbornly closed and relying only on his sense of touch as Ivan clenched him. Pretending desperately that he was dancing with someone else, anyone. Literally anyone else on Earth; would gladly have pretended, even, that it was cranky Toris there in front of him. Anyone, that was, except Gilbert, because Gilbert didn't dance like this.

Alfred. Alfred was bigger than Ludwig was, had big hands, and with the power of imagination, Ludwig was just drunk enough that he was able to picture that it was Alfred dragging him along. Almost smiled, for a second there, at the thought. He and Alfred, drunk as could be, beer bottles littering the table and schoolbooks forgotten. Familiar nights that he missed, and this time Alfred had just gotten a little too drunk, was a little too excited, and had decided he wanted to dance. That was all. No girls around, so Alfred had just grabbed Ludwig and was having fun.

They were having fun. That was all. Just him and Alfred, messing around as young men did, being silly and stupid. Back home in their flat. The smell of home, comforting and familiar. Alfred's dirty clothes tossed in the corner of the room, so carelessly, even though Alfred knew that Ludwig hated that. The pictures on the wall. The sound of Alfred humming as he studied on the couch, Ludwig bustling in the kitchen to make dinner. They had had a great arrangement, a good setup. They were happy, they got along so well, and they were best friends. They told each other everything. The only person that Ludwig felt truly comfortable around, felt so at ease with. Trusted Alfred with everything, because Alfred was the only person out there that liked every single thing about Ludwig. Didn't have to pretend with Alfred, didn't have to do what he thought someone else wanted him to do. Alfred liked Ludwig the way he was, and for that Ludwig had loved him all the way. Woulda died for Alfred, gladly so, because the feeling was mutual. They thrived off of each other, and Ludwig was always so glad to look up and see Alfred's face.

It was Alfred he was dancing with now. Had to be. It had to be Alfred there in front of him.

Sure didn't recognize that cologne, though.

His head was pounding, warm and dizzy and tingling with alcohol. Alfred's laugh was one of the things that Ludwig most loved in his life, and he kept on listening, kept on waiting, but it never came. Alfred was dancing with him, but he wasn't laughing for once.

Missed that laugh. Missed that smile.

Alfred felt so far away, across a great ravine. As if Ludwig had just faded away behind some veil. Missing. Wasn't someone looking for him? Somewhere. Ludwig had just disappeared from the world.

Hoped someone missed him.

" _Polozhis' na menya_."

That whisper. Someone suddenly nuzzled the side of his head with their lips, and the thin comfort of his imagination was broken as he heard words in a language he did not understand. Couldn't pretend anymore, because Alfred didn't speak Russian. Would have jumped off the top of a building before he ever heard himself utter a word of Russian, so fervent was Alfred's hatred of them.

Ludwig opened his eyes.

Not Alfred.

The first thing he saw was the elegant embroidery of Ivan's shoulder patch. The color of the uniform. That cologne was unfamiliar because it wasn't Alfred's. He raised his bleary eyes, and above Ivan's shoulder there was only a whirl of deep red, breaking through the eerie low light. He looked over to his right, towards the great, luminous dance floor, and saw everyone swirling around like the tide, beautiful and well-dressed and very much at home.

Only he and Ivan were back here in the dark. No one was looking their way. No one even noticed them.

And no one _missed_ him. No one was looking for him. To them, he was dead.

He was alone.


	13. Disturbance in the Night

**Chapter 13**

**Disturbance in the Night**

The music picked up.

Faster.

A lone violin screeched above the flurry of the dancing crowd, the world was just moving too quickly for Ludwig all of a sudden, too furiously, and when Ivan pushed him forward suddenly, Ludwig stumbled and lost the rhythm. Lost the pattern. Lost the nerve. Lost the will. Utter and absolute defeat.

Would never hear Alfred's laugh again.

It was gone, everything, and Ludwig could do nothing to get it back.

Just wanted to go home.

His world had stopped, but _Ivan_ didn't stop, and now it was uncomfortable, as the large hand at his waist dug into his skin painfully, and the other hand gripped his own in a crushing vice. He was pushed and pulled, yanked and dragged, and every time he lost his balance Ivan ripped him back upright with fervor, whispering chastisement in his ear. Whatever world Ludwig had slipped into for a while was no longer there. No Alfred. No Roderich. It was only intense Ivan, only the coldness of a different kind of world he knew nothing about, and the crushing hopelessness of despair.

No one looking. No one waiting. No one caring.

As he had been his entire life, Ludwig was nobody.

Ivan was relentless. The smell of vodka was overwhelming, nausea was coming back up, but Ludwig didn't have time to pull back; every time Ivan's lips brushed the side of his head, he was forced to watch his feet lest he trip over them. Everything was suddenly far too fast. He was getting dizzy, and Ivan was spinning and tossing him too vigorously.

It was too fast. He couldn't keep up. The shrieking of the violin was ever quickening.

Felt so sick.

Too fast.

"You're too slow," Ivan uttered gruffly in his ear, breath warm, and without warning he began to drag Ludwig towards the very back of the room, dark and isolated and far out of the eye of the dance floor. The red velvet panels that covered the walls were fluttering with the air from the heaters above that kept the room warm, and before he could even utter a word, before he could struggle in protest, one of the panels was lifted and Ludwig found himself pushed underneath, and bathed in darkness.

No light.

Panic. Terror.

He couldn't see, but he could _feel_ , and what he felt was making his mind reel with fright :

Ivan was pressing him back into the wall, rough hands pinning his arms to his sides with enough force to bruise, and even though he couldn't see Ivan for the dark, he could _smell_ him; the vodka was the strongest, and underneath the deep, spicy scent of wood and musk from the cologne he wore. Couldn't take it, couldn't stand it, was gonna be sick any minute, he knew it, with Ivan pressing into him like that—

The heaviness against his chest and the darkness all around brought him to the verge of claustrophobia, to absolute panic, and how he wanted to _run_ , more than anything, but he couldn't even get his damn legs working. Frozen in place in silent terror as he was, and then Ivan's head was right next to his own, hands pressing him against the wall on either side. He could hear the slur in the low voice as Ivan whispered, "You're a terrible dancer."

What else was new?

"Toris is a wonderful dancer," Ivan suddenly said, and Ludwig felt a rise of perhaps irrational anger in his chest as Ivan added, "Ha. Sometimes, anyway. When he feels like it."

Ludwig was not Toris. He would never be Toris. Never _wanted_ to be Toris. Fuck Toris. Toris had _left_ him. Didn't even wanna hear Toris' name right then, not when Ivan was pressing him against the wall with his full weight. Toris had left him, wasn't coming to save him, and for that Ludwig hated him.

A chest, shoving against his own. Boots forcing his own to keep still.

He was about to vomit or cry, or maybe both.

"But," Ivan continued, "Toris scares too easily. He used to cry a lot in the beginning. Can you believe that? Ha. Imagine. I hate crying. Men shouldn't cry. That's why I like you so much, you see, because you are very strong. You don't frighten so easily. Brave! I like brave men. You are a challenge. I like challenges, too."

A challenge. What kind of challenge? For what? To break?

He could only imagine.

Ha...if only Ivan knew how close Ludwig had come that night to crying. On several occasions. He wasn't brave. Just too scared to move.

Then Ivan's hands moved from his arms up to his chest, and then they grabbed up his collar so tightly that Ludwig could barely breathe, holding him up straight and still. Ivan was ever closer, somehow, warm and heavy, his weight overwhelming. Ivan's lips pressed into his hair, and then against his forehead, he uttered something huskily in Russian, and the tremble in Ludwig's hands passed into his entire body.

Had never been so completely paralyzed. So frozen. Couldn't move a muscle aside from that awful tremor.

Could feel Ivan's breath upon him in the dark. So close. Too close.

Oh _no_. Please. No, no, no, this was _not_ happening. Couldn't be. He was just drunk off in a corner somewhere, dreaming.

This couldn't be real.

It happened with excruciating slowness; a whisper in his ear, then a swift kiss on the tip of his nose, a hand raising from his collar to caress his neck, a horrible rush of blood to his cheeks as Ivan forced his chin up, warm breath, and the air was thick and nearly impossible to breathe. A moment of hesitation. His heart pounded in the dark.

Such a feeling he'd never known.

Fear. Adrenaline. Exhilaration.

_Horror_.

And then Ivan's lips crushed against his own, eager and intrusive and fearless, and Ludwig froze completely up, stiff as a board, as that awful panic washed over him. Absolute and utter helplessness. Terror. The grip on his collar tightened, nearly cutting off his air, and never had he imagined that his first encounter with _romance_ , and that word was a _serious_ overstatement, would be like this. Pressed against a wall, helpless and immobile, in a faraway land, cut off from the outside world and in the arms of the enemy. Overpowered by a man he didn't even know. Terrorized and victimized and unable to refuse.

Alone.

He fell into a void. He lost track of time and space. And above it all, above all of the panic and darkness and fear and loneliness, there was one thing that ran through his mind on a loop:

No one was coming to save him. No one. He was alone. The former world had been left behind. Oh, god, to think that _this_ was all there was in his future. Just this man.

Just this.

How unfair. Had never even had a chance, had never gotten to figure out who he was and what he wanted. Had never gotten to know himself, had never been able to play around and figure everything out. Alfred had come up to Ludwig, over and over and over, and said, ' 'Hey, man! I met a real cute girl today. I think you'd like her. Double-date this weekend?'

That rush of adrenaline, excitement, as Ludwig glanced up breathlessly. The rush of the unknown, the urge to meet someone, to have fun and be with someone who liked him.

In the end, self-doubt came up, self-consciousness and uncertainty, and Ludwig had always just answered, 'I'll think about it.'

But he never did it, because Ludwig would look at Alfred, so sure and so handsome and so confident, and he felt so inferior there next to him. Didn't go, because if two girls could be invited on a double-date by Alfred, then surely the other girl would expect Ludwig to be similar to his friend, anticipated that, and Ludwig wasn't. Wasn't like Alfred, and the fear of being overshadowed and a disappointment was mortifying.

Alfred was always so bummed out when Ludwig eventually refused, and once Alfred had said, so carefully, 'You know... You can tell me _anything_ , you know? If I'm not understanding something, you can tell me. I won't... Well, you know. You're my best friend.'

Hadn't understood at first, but when he eventually had, Ludwig had quickly replied, 'I just get nervous. I don't think anyone would really like me.'

That look on Alfred's face at those words. That short passage of hurt, that crinkle in his brow, and Ludwig had first known in that moment that Alfred really did love him.

He hadn't said 'yes' or 'no' that day, because he didn't really know what he wanted. Had never been with anyone, had never tried to talk to anyone, and although he had only ever glanced at girls, sometimes he thought that maybe he would just always be alone. Hadn't really been able to focus on anything but Gilbert, always Gilbert, and maybe romance just hadn't mattered that much to him.

Here he was now, at long last, and his decision was being made for him.

No choice now.

Ivan's enthusiasm was growing, perhaps at Ludwig's stillness, and the hand that had held his collar was suddenly moving downward. A grip on his inner thigh, and he gasped in alarm, and Ivan leapt at the opportunity to slip his tongue in his mouth. His eyes squinted shut in fear, still too dumb to move, and Ivan's hand clenched up in his hair. The other hand moved from his thigh to the belt of his pants, and when there was an intrusive tug, the sound of the buckle being undone, Ludwig broke out of his stupor with a lurch of panic.

By god! He was not _that_ drunk, and he was _not_ that despondent.

Not yet. Not yet, wasn't ready to give up that easily, wasn't ready to break, wasn't ready to fully admit that he didn't have a choice, wasn't ready to completely accept the situation in which he found himself. Wasn't ready to sit down and acknowledge that he was, after all, just Ivan's property.

Not yet.

Reaching up and pushing at Ivan's chest, he broke away just a little, and cried, with an awful tremble in his voice, "Get _off_ of me!"

Wasn't bravery, as it never had been. Fear, and stupidity. Denial.

_So scared._

A long, tense silence. He couldn't see, but Ludwig could imagine the look on Ivan's face; utter disbelief. Shock. As though, perhaps, no one had ever _dared_ to defy him. Confusion even, maybe, as if Ivan thought himself so charming and handsome that he couldn't believe anyone would ever not want him shoving his tongue down their throat.

Not _him_.

Hell, maybe no one ever had said that, because Ivan's gentle voice turned sharp with anger, and it was with a grunt that he reclaimed Ludwig's collar and slammed him back against the wall with all of the strength he had, and Ivan was _damn_ strong. A crack. His head hit the stone with sickening force, stars swirling, lights, pain, and Ludwig could only slump still, dazed and stunned, as Ivan leaned in and whispered in his ear, "Anhalter street, number six. Flat number three."

Ludwig's blood froze, and Ivan scoffed with what could have been annoyance. As if he hadn't planned on this. As if he had thought Ludwig would have jumped on him. Seemed irritated. As if Ludwig were being the difficult one. Ivan seemed quite annoyed that Ludwig wasn't charmed by him, wasn't responding, wasn't fawning over him. Ivan had been given the world for most of his life no doubt, was used to getting what he wanted, and Ludwig was denying him that.

And that street—

Alfred.

For the first time, that awful terror he felt in his chest wasn't for himself.

His head was _killing_ him.

"That's your flat, isn't it?" Ivan scoffed again, unsteady in his drunkenness, shifting his feet a bit, and when he pressed his weight onto Ludwig to steady himself, he added, "You lived there with an American. You are very good friends with Ambassador Edelstein. His pretty wife comes to visit almost every week. Your brother lives there now. Took your place."

What? _How_?

None of this was right.

The awful heat of panic, knowing that Alfred and Gilbert were not exactly completely safe, not from a man like Ivan. Roderich was untouchable, of course, no worry there, but, oh, to think of anything happening to _Alfred_ —

Innocent.

Gilbert had gotten them all into this mess, had started everything, and so Gilbert being in danger was not only expected but also somewhat fair, but Alfred had nothing to do with this, not a thing, shouldn't have been involved.

Ludwig shuddered as Ivan reached up and reclaimed his hair with rough fingers, whispering heavily, "You see? I know everything about you. I put men around there, you know, to watch. Always, someone is watching. That's how I know about your brother. That's how I know how happy he is. I have photos at home, of course, if you would like to see them. He's thrown out all of your things. You had photos in frames? They're outside now, in the trash. He wants to forget that you ever existed. The American moved out. Or maybe your brother kicked him out? Maybe he wants the house to himself, so he can bring over friends. I doubt much that he even remembers your name. He used you, you know."

Ludwig's bleary mind struggled to comprehend as the stars kept on dancing.

Pounding behind his eyes. Couldn't tell if his head was bleeding or not.

Ivan just kept on whispering.

"He goes out to the bars a lot. Ha! My men can barely keep up with him, for all he goes out! It's a shame about your friend. I wonder where he went off to. The ambassador never comes over any more. I don't think he and your brother get along very well. A little sad, about those photos, though. Your friend was mad. I don't blame him! Well, it's not your fault. Who can ever choose who they call 'brother'. You deserved a better one, I think. You're a brave man. He used you. He never cared about you. If he had, he would be here right now. He wouldn't have let you take his place."

Ivan's German was very choppy and disjointed when he was drunk; barely comprehensible. But Ludwig got the message, loud and clear. The stars in his vision didn't bother him anymore, not at those words. Not at that feeling. His churning stomach was suddenly no match for the hurt in his chest.

Alfred meant so much to Ludwig, so much. Gilbert had always been the most important thing in Ludwig's life, but Alfred was damn close to being at that level, to having that same amount of love and devotion. Couldn't stand the thought of Gilbert having really taken over that flat and kicking Alfred out. After all Alfred had done for him, to think of him moving _out_. They had bought that flat together. It had been _theirs_. Alfred's name was on that paper. Gilbert had no right to run Alfred out. No right.

Despair.

Those words.

That Gilbert would throw out all of their years together like so much garbage. Knowing what those photos had _meant_ to Ludwig, having no other childhood. Those fuckin' pictures were all he had. That Gilbert could really just move on with life. Gilbert had always been so unpredictable. So moody. So volatile. So selfish. The worst part of it all was that everything Ivan said, as awful as it was, all sounded like things that Gilbert was perfectly capable of, in the right mindset. Sounded very much like Gilbert. Too much like Gilbert.

That was the worst part.

And it was true; Roderich and Gilbert had always hated each other. How would Ivan have ever known that, if he were just lying? Could such a bold statement really be an even bolder bluff?

Ivan spoke so surely, so confidently, and it was impossible to pick out the lies from the truth, especially when speaking about someone like Gilbert, who was another expert liar.

Did Ivan _really_ have photos of Gilbert, smiling and happy and _free_ , arm in a sling as he roamed the streets and barhopped, completely worry-free as he tossed out mementos, as he kicked Alfred out into the winds and shunned Roderich as he always had? Living up his second chance. Being in the West, where he had always wanted to be.

That was all Gilbert had wanted, to be in West Germany. Ludwig had always thought that that was because, of course, West Germany was where Ludwig was, and that Gilbert was coming to him. Easy to suddenly remember that West Germany had held many other things of interest to Gilbert; money, freedom, partying, drugs, choices and free will.

Things Gilbert had always chosen over Ludwig before and that he didn't have access to in the East.

Wished his head would stop pounding, just for a second, so he could think, try to think, try to clear his head, try to sort out his thoughts and gather up his senses.

Ivan had known his address. Ivan had known about Alfred. Ivan had known about Roderich. Ivan had known about Erzsébet. Seemed to know everything, actually. _Oh_. Why would Ivan even bother lying? What was the point? Ivan had already _won_ ; Gilbert was gone. Why lie to him and torment him all the further? What good would it do? It wouldn't change anything. He had already made his decision.

No going back.

Gilbert.

He felt sick.

Ivan's drunken little laughs were only making him all the sicker, and he continued, lowly, "You Westerners speak so lowly of us, but it's amazing the kind of things one can purchase from the Western government. Isn't that funny? I can buy anything I want. I love capitalism. ...don't tell anyone I said that."

Felt as if he were back in that awful fog that had covered the town that morning, so thick, endless, impossible to see through. Couldn't escape, couldn't see the road, no hope at all in sight. Just grey and misty all around.

Gilbert was gone, and that was really all there was. Gilbert was in the West, free, and so of course he would put Ludwig behind him and move on. Anyone would, maybe, and Gilbert had never been a good person.

Maybe he should have just accepted it. Was just so hard to stomach.

Ivan's fingers suddenly and abruptly released his collar, and moved up yet again to run through Ludwig's hair, but gently this time. His voice was gentler, too, when he crooned, "I'm sorry. Did I hit your head too hard? I didn't mean to."

Ludwig didn't move and didn't speak, as his head lit up with fire and his stomach filled with ice. Hadn't ever felt so demoralized.

Ivan released him then, and said, calmly, "Go out and get some air. I'll wait here."

A reprieve. Maybe Ivan's mood was as ruined as his.

Ludwig didn't need to be told twice. He fled, body working at long last. Groping blindly for the edge of the panel, he felt his way through the dark, and when he finally found the end of the fabric and burst back out into the fresh air and light, it was not with relief. Gasping to catch his breath and stumbling towards the door at the back, he left the ballroom in a panic and found himself back in the empty hallway.

Alone, he leaned back against the wall, closed his eyes, and buried his face in his hand, trying to settle his head and his stomach before he really did throw up. Couldn't even breathe. His head was swimming. He thought he would faint. A horrible, gnawing longing in his chest.

Home was gone. Admitting it at last hurt.

Wanted to _cry_.

He couldn't stay here. He had to get out.

Looking around blearily, he tried to gather a sense of his surroundings. There were other doors lining the hallway, and the double staircases at the ends. He looked the hallway up and down, feeling so hopelessly lost, and didn't know where to go. Couldn't go outside, woulda froze to death in a second. Couldn't go upstairs, where the frightening hotel rooms were. Couldn't go back to Ivan.

Nowhere to go, when you didn't belong anywhere.

The vodka was catching up to him in a bad way. Could hardly see straight, suddenly. Everything was spinning.

Pushing off the wall, he staggered forward, and just opened the first door that he reached. He burst through it, hoping for a place to lay down, to rest his mind, and stopped in his tracks when he realized he had accidentally stumbled into some kind of lounge.

Voices.

A fireplace crackled on the other end, and there were people on couches and sofas sitting, chatting amongst themselves, and when they saw Ludwig standing there in the doorframe, they all went quiet. A moment of silence, and then they started to whisper, and his agitation was ever growing.

His head hurt. Anger began to replace that fear.

They all recognized him, no doubt, as Ivan's handsome new German.

He wasn't anyone's _anything_.

If he could speak Russian, he would have raised his arms in the air and told them, in not so many words, what they could all go off and do to themselves. Would have let them know that he wasn't anything to laugh at. Would have told them what he thought about their worth and the worth of their motherland.

Couldn't, so he just stood there in the door and looked around at them in a daze.

At last, a woman standing off to the side caught his eye, and after a second of hesitation, she smiled at him, teeth lit up in the firelight.

And all conversation resumed.

A man came up to Ludwig and slapped him on the shoulder, shoving a glass into his hand with words that he could not understand. Encouragement perhaps. Ludwig looked around, and couldn't understand any of them. He didn't understand how they could live in this treacherous world so merrily. How they could see so many injustices and turn away.

Didn't they know what he had done to get here? The things he had given up?

The woman that had smiled at him came forward, and when she reached out and touched his arm, raising her pretty fingers up and down in languid movements, Ludwig raised the glass to his lips and drank it straight. Why not? He was already hammered. Would rather just pass out somewhere. She started speaking to him, her voice soft and gentle and sultry as she crooned, and Ludwig could only stare straight ahead at the fire, wondering, as the vodka flowed through his veins, why he had offered himself to the devil so willingly for someone who would not even keep a simple photograph of him to remember his face.

Maybe the devil was not the one he had assumed it to be.

Was it so much to ask, for Gilbert just to keep one picture of him? To remember the one who had given him that freedom he had been so desperate for? Was he being unreasonable?

The vodka was kicking his ass. He couldn't focus. Someone came up and refilled his glass. He drank it. Even though he knew he shouldn't. Couldn't help it.

The woman's voice was pleasant in his ear as her fingers crept down and wound up in his belt. She tugged him towards herself, and when he stumbled and fell up against her for his intoxication, she smiled up at him with a leer, biting her bottom lip in shameless flirtation, and reached up with her other hand to stroke his cheek. Much less terrifying than Ivan's hand.

Voice lowering into a purr, she whispered, in very broken speech, "You German? Is okay! I _like_ Germans. Very handsome."

Was he smiling? Felt like it.

He looked down at her through blurry vision, entranced, and couldn't help but enjoy a little bit her, ah, friendliness. Her fingers released his belt and started to trace down the line of his pocket. A little too low. Needed something to distract him. Anything.

She wasn't the prettiest, but her eyes were nice and her dazzling way of dressing made her appealing.

And maybe, just maybe, he would have let her do as she pleased if there hadn't been an unwelcome intrusion. A sudden shadow blocked the light of the fire, and when Ludwig finally raised his eyes, he saw a somewhat familiar face before him. It took the shaking of his head to clear it, and a moment of thought, to recognize the man. It was the one that had refused his handshake.

Ah. Right. That 'fashisty' jerk.

From the look on his face now, as he held a glass in his hand and eyed Ludwig up and down, the lingering feeling of dislike was still there. And, as before, it was still mutual. Only Ivan was not here this time to mediate.

Apparently, the officer had not agreed with the woman's apparent like of Germans. Too bad. Here Ludwig was. From the look of it now, he wasn't going to be going anywhere, either.

A long, hard stare.

Without Ivan, who knew how things would play out. The other realized it as well, and after a thorough looking over of the room, he opened his mouth, and began to speak, eyes alight with malice.

Ludwig turned his eyes back to the woman at his side, trying his best to focus on her hands rather than the tone of voice rising above the quiet chatter. It was hard, and even her smile had fallen, as she turned a stern, nasty gaze to the officer babbling away before them. Ludwig was glad for once that he couldn't understand.

Someone from behind giggled, and he heard Ivan's name amidst the Russian, and he could only imagine the obscenities that were coming out of the officer's mouth. Innuendos and insinuations, disgusting suggestions and dirty jokes, and he felt his blood rising. Now, not even the warm hands around his beltline were enough to keep the agitation at bay. He was starting to lose his cool. No matter how hard he tried not to.

Anger.

The woman could see it, and she started speaking again, murmuring in his ear in an attempt to distract him, raising both hands to his face and trying to force him to look at her. It worked a little, maybe; the officer began to laugh, and Ludwig tried to appear calm and collected, smoothing his shirt with his hands and trying his best to smile, as if unfazed. Tried hard to keep his eyes on her. Just look at her.

Calm. He could be calm.

...but why? Why bother? Why couldn't he get angry, too? Why couldn't he act on aggression and fear, like everyone else did? Why couldn't he act like Gilbert, just for once, and start a fight? No one here to judge him, after all.

Roderich was _gone_.

Against the woman's hands, Ludwig couldn't really help but turn his head, towards the man, lift up his chin and say, as casually as he could for the slur creeping into his voice, "Why don't you fuck off and go lick Ivan's boots? All of you seem to be good at that. Didn't have so much to say earlier! Scared of him? Or are you scared of me? Huh? _Fashisty_? That it? Why don't you say any of this to Ivan, huh? Go on. I'd love to see it. I really would. We'll see who gets fucked by Ivan then."

A silence.

His head was killing him. Probably bleeding in the back from Ivan's blow. Felt like shit. Was a breath away from falling over completely.

The officer didn't understand the words Ludwig spat at him, but he understood the tone, sure did, and it was with a curse of malice that he suddenly tossed the contents of his glass straight into Ludwig's face.

Fire.

" _Shit_ ," he cursed automatically, hands flying up to his eyes as the vodka burned them like mace, the woman wrenched back too with her own curse, and as the white dots of pain danced before the dark, everything went painfully quiet.

He could hear only the racing of his heart. Blood pounding in his ears.

No one spoke now. Just silence.

Ludwig tried not to wince as he rubbed in vain at his eyes. Goddamn, hurt like hell, and Ludwig hissed air through his teeth.

The officer said something else then, voice barely a hiss, and Ludwig knew that it was something exceedingly offensive, because the woman behind of him let out an indignant gasp. Murmurs and scoffs. Sounds of disbelief.

The hatred that was squirming into his chest burned as much as the vodka did. He was on the edge of the cliff. His patience was wearing thin.

... _no one_ was coming to save him. He was on his own.

Finally, Ludwig squinted open his eyes, as the pain dulled and his vision cleared, and he could see, with a horrible lurch of his stomach, that _everyone_ was watching. Everyone was staring at him. No one spoke. Waiting for his response to whatever awful thing had been said. Feeling mortified and embarrassed and so angry, Ludwig reached up trembling hands and swept his dripping bangs out of his eyes with all of the composure that he could muster, pulling himself up straight and raising his chin high.

If he could only cling to some remnants of dignity. Some part of himself. He tried. He really did. Holding on so desperately to the person he was back home, tried to pretend that Roderich could still see how he acted, was still holding him to that high standard. Tried to pretend that Roderich was standing behind him. Tried to act accordingly.

Dignity. Pride.

He tried his damn best.

Then the officer spit on the ground before him, and that was too much.

Too much. Far too much. The pretend Roderich behind him vanished, and there was only rage.

Everything had been building up.

Sick with adrenaline and frustrated and unspeakably _angry_ (and maybe at someone _other_ than Ivan and this disrespectful officer _)_ , Ludwig couldn't help himself; he leapt forward with the speed of a tiger, and before he even realized what he was doing his fist had connected with the officer's face. No one had had time to react. The officer hadn't expected it, and stumbled backwards.

For the second time, he had sucker-punched. For the second time, he felt no guilt.

The woman's hands were suddenly in Ludwig's belt in an attempt to hold him back, but it was no use; she wasn't strong enough. He broke free of her grip, and charged, taking advantage of the stupor to knock the officer to the ground.

He could barely remember the last time he had gotten into a fight. The last one had been with Gilbert. Ah, hell, who was he kidding? He'd never gotten into a fight with anyone _but_ Gilbert. Stupid, stupid Gilbert.

The only person he had ever hit in anger in his entire life had been Gilbert.

This man was the second, and suddenly Ludwig was on top of him, and it was through a haze of red that he pulled back his arm and hit him again.

The woman from behind started to screech, as she tried to grab the fabric of his uniform and pull him back. Too late. He had never been so angry in his entire life. He wouldn't budge, wouldn't move, fueled then only by fury and that awful fear that was always present underneath.

Ludwig hit him again.

Because how could Gilbert?

And again.

How _could_ he?

And again.

_How could he?_

And again.

He'd given up everything.

And again.

His _life_. He'd given up his entire life, his entire future, for that man. Everything he had ever had, he had given Gilbert, so that Gilbert could be free.

Gilbert had given him nothing.

There was no longer any resistance from beneath him, but still Ludwig hit the officer, and he didn't stop until someone had suddenly come up from behind him and grabbed him by the shoulders, pulling him back so hard that he fell onto the floor. Not that girl. She couldn't have had the strength, not with Ludwig in that red daze.

A terrible, frightening cry.

" _Enough_!"

Ludwig looked up, propped up on his elbows, and the haze faded into a dull, throbbing grey when he saw Ivan standing there above him, eyes stern and brow low. Looked angry and terrifying, ever imposing.

Ivan.

Damn. Why had he interfered? Ludwig was not finished yet. Gilbert had forgotten him. Someone had to hurt for that. That man was as good as any.

Ludwig could only lay there for a moment, stunned, and the woman came up to that furious Ivan bravely and spoke quickly, motioning dramatically with her arms as she no doubt explained what had happened. Ivan just stood there, listening, and his bristles seemed to fall. Looked less angry, less terrible, and his shoulders lowered as the woman spoke.

Ludwig tried to gather himself. He couldn't seem to breathe. His hands were shaking. Blurry vision. Couldn't say if that was because he was angry or because he was drunk. Or if because he about to cry.

Chest heaving and trembling with adrenaline, he looked over to the side.

The officer didn't move.

Gilbert was in the West, safe and sound. Ludwig was in Siberia, afraid and alone. That wasn't really fair. He had told Gilbert to _wait_. He had told Gilbert to be _patient_. In a little more time, they could have been together. Not fair.

The officer suddenly inhaled and groaned a little, and shifted. Awake! Well then. Motherfucker. Time to hit him some more. Pulling himself to his feet, Ludwig didn't really feel the pain in his hand, or notice that his knuckles were bloody and raw, and when he took a staggering step towards the fallen officer, Ivan came forward and moved into his path.

He tried to go around him. Ivan blocked him. He went to the other side. Ivan blocked him again. His intoxication made it far too difficult to get around quick Ivan.

He tried again. Ivan blocked him. Ludwig couldn't _stand_ it. Someone had to pay for the aching in his heart. Someone needed to bear the brunt of this frustration. Of this unfairness. Couldn't hit Ivan, because fuckin' Ivan _owned_ him, didn't he, so he had to hit someone else.

Just wanted that _feeling_ to go away.

That helplessness. Wanted to be in control again, wanted to feel less powerless.

"Go back in the hall," Ivan said, voice cool and very serious, despite the red of his cheeks, "and wait for me there. I'll come for you later. I will handle this."

Ludwig lifted up his chin, despite his own drunkenness, and held firm. He didn't need someone to handle things for him. He was perfectly capable of dealing with offenses himself.

"Move," Ludwig said, perhaps foolishly, and tried to shove past.

It was like trying to shove a bull, a wall, and Ivan refused to move. Didn't even shift.

"Go on, I said. It will be taken care of."

Ludwig clenched his fists at his sides.

"Move."

"Get out."

"Let me _by_."

Ivan's cool voice was becoming angry, and his face was frightening again. Shoulders once more braced and legs spread firmly.

"I said go!"

_Go_?

Where the fuck could he _go_? Where could he go? Where? Where did Ivan expect him to go? There was nowhere to go. He was alone. His home was gone. Berlin was gone. Roderich was gone. Alfred was gone.

Gilbert had gone. He remained.

He snapped.

Where could he go?

" _NO_!"

Around him, there was only that endless fog. The vast mist of Siberia. Nowhere to go, because he couldn't see anything at all around him. Just snow and ice and cold and loneliness.

Ludwig turned on Ivan suddenly like an angry dog, throwing all of his fear aside, and with one great burst of defiance he reached out and shoved Ivan with all of his might. Huge Ivan staggered back only a centimeter at his efforts, and probably only that because of his drunkenness, but Ludwig was hardly deterred. In front of all of them, regardless of who was watching, he shoved Ivan's chest again, and again, and again, screeching at the top of his lungs, " _No_! I won't! This whole thing is _your_ goddamn fault! You ruined everything! _Everything_! Everything would have been alright if it hadn't been for _you_! All of this is your fault! All of it!"

Ivan just stood there, and stared down at him with a low brow and pursed lips. Not angry, exactly. Curious, more like. Fascinated in a way, or maybe amused.

Ludwig stomped his foot, and shoved Ivan one final time, just for the hell of it, as the anger began to turn into a terrible, numbing despair. "I _hate_ you for it! We were good before all of this happened! If it weren't for you damn Russians and your damn wall! You cut off _everything_ , and I couldn't _ever_ see him! _That's why_ he was so stupid! _That's why_ he tried to blow you all to hell! _That's why_ he got caught! You should have just shot him! You should have just shot _me_ back in Berlin and _done me a favor!_ I would rather have _died_ than to come here and hear all of this and, oh, _Christ_ , oh god, he was so _stupid_! How could he have been so fuckin' stupid? He made me... He made me..."

Oh, god, Gilbert. Gilbert. Gilbert had been _everything_.

He had nothing. All those promises Gilbert had made.

Meant absolutely nothing.

His strength left him, and he fell to his knees, burying his face in his hands as he gave in to his despair, and everything was so _wrong_. He had made his decision, he had. Woulda made it again, too. He just hadn't known it would feel this awful. Would have done it again, but couldn't handle the way it made him _feel_.

He _loved_ Gilbert. But sometimes...

Sometimes, he had hated Gilbert.

Gilbert had been nothing but trouble for him, his entire life.

"I gave up everything for him," Ludwig finally moaned, to no one, and there was a rustle and a blur as Ivan knelt down before him on one knee and grabbed his collar. With one mighty yank, Ludwig was lifted to his feet, and it was Ivan's eyes that bored into his own, and it was Ivan who was smiling and running a soothing hand up and down his back.

Not Gilbert. Gilbert would never smile at him again. Gilbert wasn't looking for him. Gilbert had gone on with life. And it wasn't fair. When had it ever come to this?

Those photos had meant _so_ much. So much. Alfred had meant so much.

Ludwig looked up at Ivan, feeling miserable and pathetic, as Ivan's hand held him upright. "How could he be so stupid?" he whispered, caught under Ivan's gaze and feeling sick, "I gave up _everything_ for him. I would have done anything for him. If he hadn't been so stupid. Why couldn't he have just waited? Didn't he know something like this could happen? Why doesn't he ever think?"

Why couldn't Gilbert ever realize that his actions had consequences for more people than just himself?

Ivan was upon him, then, wrapping him in arms, maybe a master of sensing weakness, and he whispered, "He's a fool, that is why. Men like that. You can't change them, even if you try. He is who he is. It's not your fault. It's his. All of it. You did what you had to do." Ivan pulled him close, and as he led Ludwig along, he leaned in and added, in a whisper, "I would never forget you, like he did. Not like that. I won't ever let you down like that. I'll take care of you. Always. I'll always be here. I give you my word."

Ludwig was pulled to the door, and it was with a blurry mind that he was led out of the threshold and then up the stairs. The entire while, he could hear Ivan's soft voice in his ear, cool and soothing, and for one delirious, drunken moment, Ludwig felt a little better.

Just a little.

Beating the hell out of someone had calmed his nerves a bit, and Ivan's voice wasn't the hardest on the ears.

'I'll always be here.'

Ivan had said that, and somehow, someway, that struck a nerve in Ludwig. To be there. Gilbert had always called him 'little brother', but he'd never been there when Ludwig had really needed him. Sometimes, it had felt like he had been a novelty to Gilbert, something cute and something to take care of when he felt like it, like a fuckin' puppy, but hardly more than that. Gilbert was never there when Ludwig had honestly and truly needed him, and never seemed to notice or care.

He'd just wanted someone that he could rely on. Was that such a great thing to ask for?

Ivan crooned away in his ear as they climbed the stairs. His head swam with the vodka. He could barely see. A twisting of hallways above, doors with numbers on them, and then Ivan stopped in front of a room, and pushed stumbling Ludwig against the wall.

Ivan leaned in, hand against his chest to steady him, and he smiled.

"Wait here. I'll be back."

Ludwig could only nod, dumbly, and Ivan reached into his pocket, and pulled out a key. With steady hands, he unlocked the door, pushed it open with stealth, and slipped inside.

Ludwig waited.

Leaning against the wall and feeling rather dazed, thanks in no small part to the overwhelming emotions, he looked down with a wince when his hand began to throb. Blood dripped down onto the carpet. He had hurt the officer pretty badly, he imagined, for his own hand to be so busted up. Ah, served him right. He'd brought it on himself. It had felt damn good, too. To relieve some of that terrible tension in his chest. To take out his anger on someone.

He couldn't take it out on dumb Gilbert. Not anymore.

Gilbert was gone.

Ludwig wondered if the others had pulled the officer up to his feet and led him to a couch somewhere and given him some vodka so he could nurse his wounds. Ha. He'd better start getting it back together soon, for Ludwig was certain that his blows would be absolutely nothing compared to whatever it was that Ivan had in mind for the officer, because hadn't he said that he would take care of it? Ivan did not seem one to say such things lightly and without reason, not just empty threats or grim jokes. When Ivan said 'I'll take care of it', the world would have done well to shudder. Not anyone Ludwig would ever wanna piss off, not a man like Ivan, that was for—

A gunshot.

Ludwig jumped in fright with a pitiful cry, so forcefully that he immediately tottered sideways in his intoxication and fell down onto the floor. Pushing up against the wall, heart racing in sudden alarm, he looked around in a bleary panic, thinking the officer had come after him with a damn gun. He scanned the halls, as well as he could for his bleary gaze, and saw nothing.

No one there.

His chest hurt from the adrenaline.

Ludwig looked around in confusion, pulling his knees up and pressing his palms into the floor for balance, and just when he thought that he was hearing things, there was a dull thud from within the room.

It had come from within.

He should have just waited. He knew he should have. But he couldn't _help_ himself. He somehow pulled himself up to his feet, staggering and wobbling, and tried to find some bravery. Reaching out with a shaking hand, he grabbed the doorknob, and twisted it. It clicked open, and with a deep breath, Ludwig pushed the door open and stepped inside.

He should have turned around.

The room was pretty, neither too small nor too large, and the curtains above the windows were red. He stepped around the corner, and the bed came into view. The sheets and covers were red. Flowers on the end table. A radio on the dresser.

Ivan stood there, beside the bed, his cap held under his arm. He was staring down at something, almost thoughtfully, head tilted and lips pushed out as he patted a gun against his leg airily. Ludwig took a step closer, and saw that the carpet was red, too, but not because it had been colored that way.

It was red because it was being soaked through with blood.

On the floor, laying completely still and inert, was a woman. Ludwig dared himself to take a step closer, as his eyes widened and his head began to ache, and when he came close enough, Ivan glanced over at him, looking for all the world as though he had just completed a business transaction. Their eyes met. Ivan finally raised his brow, shrugged a shoulder, and put his gun away.

The air was heavy.

Ludwig looked down at the motionless woman. She was on her side, beautiful blue dress stained with dark blood, and from beneath her spread a growing red pool. The bullet hole in her chest was immediately obvious. She was pretty. Well. She _had_ been pretty. A woman he had never met.

And never would.

Somehow, all the same, Ludwig knew damn well who she was. The officer's wife. Innocent. Ludwig fell back, as the dizziness and nausea overcame him. A fog of shock. He looked up, meeting Ivan's eyes through the mist with numb disbelief.

Ivan only snorted, humorlessly.

"I could have removed her hand," he said, simply, as he took up one of the flowers from the vase, smoothing back his messy hair as if nothing had happened, "but I shot her instead." Ivan's pale eyes bored into his own, twirling the flower within his fingers, and then he smiled. "Do you know why?"

Ludwig could only shake his head, having no words for what he felt.

Couldn't think.

"I shoot her now," Ivan said, voice low and husky, "because you suffer for your brother. She must be willing then, too, to suffer for her husband. When you love someone, you have to pay for their mistakes. Understand? Her husband's fault. Not yours. Do you understand me? Not yours. I did this for you, because you were wronged. I always will, every time. I promise you that. An insult to you is an insult to _me_. And no one insults me."

Ivan advanced a step forward, and reached out, gently grabbing Ludwig's chin with what could have been an attempt to draw dazed Ludwig's attention, because he was still staring away at that woman.

"I did that," Ivan pointed to the body, "for you. I would do anything for you. Always."

_I would do anything for you._

Ludwig shuddered.

Ivan let Ludwig go and took the flower in his hand, tossing it down rather carelessly onto the woman. Ludwig couldn't stop staring at her. The daze was turning into panic, though it was too far under the drunkenness for it to fully take over. Felt like he was in some awful dream. Surreal and far away.

Looking back, Ivan saw his wide eyes and racing pulse, and reached out yet again to take his chin, forcing him to look up and lock eyes. "Hey! D'you hear me? It's not your fault. You didn't do anything wrong."

'No', he wanted to say, 'but she didn't, either.'

He stayed silent. Because, when he thought about it...

Ivan was right, in a way. Sometimes, loving someone only brought trouble. Because it had been Gilbert's stupid mistake that had brought all of this upon him. Ivan was right. He suffered for Gilbert. Why should he be the only one? It wasn't fair. The officer had fucked up, like Gilbert had. So his wife paid the price, like Ludwig had. It was wrong, and it was horrible, and it was the most disgusting form of cruelty that he had _ever_ seen, but Christ almighty, it made _sense_. He just wanted someone else to hurt like he was.

His head was killing him.

Gilbert had let him down.

Ivan took his hand, gave him one of those handsome, charming smiles that poked his canines out, and whispered, "You can always depend on _me_."

He _needed_ words like that. Ivan, whatever else could be said about him, did what he said he was going to do. Followed through with his promises. That was more than he could say about Gilbert.

"Come. We must go."

What else could he do? Stuck here in the middle of nowhere, with only Ivan to turn to. Had no choice but to go along with everything. He was alone. If no one was looking for him, what else could he do? Had to depend on Ivan, had to, had no choice, because there was nothing else out here. No one else could help him, and he was kept alive only by Ivan's good graces.

If Gilbert did not remember him, if his big brother no longer thought about him, then there was at least someone who would protect him from this freezing, merciless world.

But, he wondered dizzily, as Ivan took his hand and pulled him away from the scene of the crime, who, then, would protect him from Ivan? Ha. Who could? No one could have ever protected him from that man. Ivan owned this world, and everyone in it was only a pawn. Ludwig had no say, no power, no control. Stuck out in the middle of Siberia. Time to just flow down the river, perhaps.

If Gilbert had forgotten him, then what else was there to do except lay down and die?

Until then, he could take a little comfort in Ivan's soothing words. Because Ivan was always at his side. Gilbert wasn't here. Ivan was not going anywhere. Gilbert was not coming back. Gilbert had forgotten him. Ivan would kill for him. Both of them were liars, but at least Ivan's words were kinder on his ears than Gilbert's had been.

There were two worlds, one in the West and then this world of mist.

Ludwig had never belonged anywhere. He had never fit in. He had never been meant to be happy. It hadn't ever been in his stars. Nothing had ever worked out for him. There had always been something _wrong_ with him. For that, perhaps, Gilbert had taken his place in the outside world. Gilbert, who had a name and a lineage that he could trace, who had a past and a future, who had papers and society to support him in his time of need, and who would probably do better on his own.

Ludwig had never been _anyone_. Nameless. Worthless. No past. No future. Maybe it was better this way.

Gilbert belonged in that other world, as much as Ludwig belonged in this fog. How it was always meant to be, maybe, all along.

Ludwig _hated_ Ivan.

He just hated himself a little more.

Mist.


	14. Dreams of Leaving

**Chapter 14**

**Dreams of Leaving**

He was lost.

Alone. Freezing. He didn't know where he was. It was very cold outside, and his shirt was too thin. He wrapped his arms around himself and walked down the streets, head bowed and feet numb. People passed by; no one looked down at him. He was not paying attention to where he was going. Everything was grey and blurry and foggy.

Where was he? Did anyone miss him? Was there someone looking for him?

He wandered. His bare feet were cut and sore, as he walked the dirty pavement. He wanted someone to find him, and take him home. Even if he didn't know where 'home' _was_.

He bumped into something warm and hard, and for a second he could only stare at the pavement in dumb immobility, too cold and sad and lonely to really think, and then someone bent down in front of him and placed warm, heavy hands upon his shoulders.

_'Oh! I'm sorry. Are you okay?'_

He looked up; a handsome man, kind and regal, was kneeling before him. He looked down at him with a furrowed brow, and from behind his glasses there was something that looked like concern.

Who was this man?

_'Are you lost? Hey. Are you okay?'_

Was this his father?

_'What's your name?'_

His name? He didn't know his name. Had he ever had one? He couldn't remember.

The man called out for someone, hands never leaving his shoulders, and then suddenly there was a woman kneeling before him as well. A beautiful woman, very young, hair tied up under a wool cap, and she smiled at him, with the kindest eyes he had ever seen. She looked worried, and maybe somehow _happy_ , and he could only stare back at her, a strange stir within his chest.

Had he found his parents? He had been looking out here for days.

_'Hey. What happened to you? Where are your parents?'_

Weren't _they_? He bowed his head, lost for words, and then the woman reached down and took his hand, as the man smoothed his hair with his fingers. They stood, and he walked in between them as they conversed with each other above him.

_'What should we do with him?'_

_'I don't know. He's lost, poor thing.'_

The woman gripped his hand.

_'Do you have parents?'_

He shook his head, and they spoke again amongst themselves.

_'We should take him to the police station.'_

_'Oh, no, Roderich! They'll put him in an orphanage! Can't we take him?'_

_'Take him? Us? But we don't know anything about him!'_

_'I can't bear to leave him here! Why don't we just take him, for now, and you can try to find his parents once we get back to Berlin? Until we find his parents, I'd rather he stayed with us. Look at him. We should take care of him, just for now.'_

_'Well! ...damn. Alright. Let's take him home.'_

_'Oh! Roderich! He's cute, isn't he? Maybe we can...'_

_'Not so fast.'_

_'...I know.'_

He let them lead him where they would, and now he looked straight ahead as he walked, because he had found someone that would help him, that would care for him, even though he did not know where he was or who he was or where he had come from, or who _they_ were.

Still, he couldn't smile. He just didn't feel like it.

They stopped at a corner, and the man made a call on a payphone, and then they were off again. They walked until they reached a vehicle, full of shopping bags, and the woman got into the backseat with him as the man drove. She held him in her arms, and he laid his head against her chest, hands clenching the fabric of her shirt.

_'I'm Erzsébet! Do you have a name?'_

He shook his head.

_'Can I think of one for you?'_

He nodded.

_'What about...Rudolf! I love that name, Rudolf.'_

_'Rudolf? Erzsébet, at least think of a good one. What about Leon? Or Johan?'_

They began to argue gently, but he did not care, as he drifted into sleep, warm and comforted and feeling much less lost. He had _known_ that there was someone out there looking for him. They had been meant to encounter each other.

The ride passed quietly, as the woman ran her fingers through his hair and crooned away words of comfort.

He awoke hours later, as the woman shook him, and then they were pulling him out of the car and out towards a very tall, elegant stone building. They walked on either side, each of them holding one of his hands within their own. Inside the building, they went into the hallway and then up the stairs, and when they opened a door and passed through, there was someone else standing there.

The woman was smiling.

_'Hi, Gilbert! Did you get everything ready for us?'_

_'Sure did! Is this him?'_

He looked up as another man was suddenly before him, staring down at him with curiosity. Had never seen a man like that, so white and so pale, with those strange reddish eyes. Had never seen anything like it. Silvery-blond hair shining in the light. The man just stared at him, and he stared right back, and something about _that_ man was different. Strong and wild and somehow comforting.

_'Gilbert, what do you think of Rudolf? Don't you think Rudolf is a pretty name?'_

_'Leon is better.'_

A silence, as the other man stared ever down at him, and then he broke into a lopsided grin and reached down, sweeping him up into his arms and lifting him into the air. He held him tightly to his chest, and for the first time, he felt himself _smiling_.

He reached up and threw his arms around the man's neck, burying his face in his shirt.

_'Ludwig! He's Ludwig! Do you like that name?'_

He nodded, pulling back enough to meet those unique eyes that he already liked, and he smiled again.

_'Then Ludwig it is! It's great to meet'cha Ludwig!'_

From then on, he had been Ludwig.

He opened his mouth, and his voice was scratchy and thin as he asked, earnestly, ' _Are you my big brother?'_

_'How d'you know?'_

After that, Gilbert refused to put him down.

For the next ten years.

Gilbert did everything for him. Everything. Maybe not things a parent should have, maybe not things a responsible man should have, but things a brother certainly should.

_I'd do anything for you._

Gilbert was always with him. Gilbert held him close to his chest at night and told him stories until he fell asleep. Gilbert made him breakfast in the morning. Gilbert chastised him when he did something wrong, but afterwards he always ruffled his hair and kissed the top of his head. Playing together and rough-housing in the evenings.

He loved every minute of it. He loved Gilbert. Always had, since the very first moment Ludwig had ever laid eyes upon him.

_I'll always be here for you._

Gilbert was proud and strong and brave and always so funny, and he never liked to leave him alone for too long when he was little, even once Ludwig was a little older and could take care of himself. Every year, the relationship between Gilbert and Ludwig grew stronger, while at the same time the relationship between Gilbert and Roderich deteriorated.

Roderich always wanted to take Ludwig, and Gilbert went ballistic at the mere mention. They had never found his parents, and Roderich constantly demanded that Gilbert return Ludwig to his care so that Roderich could get Ludwig documented and into the system. Gilbert refused, rejected it, and Ludwig had always wondered if maybe Gilbert liked Ludwig having no identity because that made it easier for Gilbert to claim ownership of Ludwig.

The older and older Ludwig became, the more he grew, the more overbearing Gilbert became. It was so strange, to have someone who absolutely suffocated him and yet was never there when he needed him. Gilbert was never around when Ludwig wanted him to be, getting drunk and high, and when Ludwig wanted to be alone, wanted to go out and try to have a life, Gilbert smothered him and pressed him down until he obeyed. Brotherly love sometimes felt more like obsession, and Ludwig drowned sometimes in Gilbert's vast ocean.

But love wasn't supposed to diminish for mistakes one made, and Ludwig loved Gilbert as much when he was hugging him as he did when Gilbert was screaming at him in the heat of an argument.

He would always love Gilbert. Always. Even though sometimes...

_Why can't you ever just do what I tell you? Leave me alone!_

Sometimes, he wished that Gilbert would have been a little more responsible. He wished that Gilbert would have acted his age. Wished that Gilbert could have been more like Roderich. Wished that Gilbert would have stopped drinking, stopped going out. Gilbert was just Gilbert. That was just how he was. Just Gilbert. He couldn't help it, maybe. Gilbert had always been a little crazy, but he couldn't help that.

_Forever_ hadn't lasted as long as Ludwig had expected.

His head hurt.

Together.

_You're Ludwig._

Someone was beside of him. Their breath shifted his eyelashes.

_Don't be sad, Ludwig. It won't be forever. Look, I even thought of a great nickname for you! West! See, and...and I can be East, and even though we're split up, we're still together. Cool, huh?_

The air was cooler and much thinner suddenly, and he felt the fog of sleep heavy on his mind. Warm sheets.

Were they together? There was someone asleep next to him, that much was certain; he could hear their deep, heavy breathing. When did he wind up in this bed? He didn't remember getting here. The voices in his head were muddled and disjointed. He was so tired.

West.

Ha. He hadn't thought of that ridiculous nickname for years. Gilbert had only ever used it once or twice. They had stopped talking there for a while, when Gilbert had thrown one of his fits, and Ludwig had forgotten about it over time. How strange. Thinking of it now.

Someone shifted beside of him, and there was a sudden hand thrown over his neck. It rose until it came to rest on his cheek, warm and heavy. He sighed into his pillow, resting on his side as he fought with the urge to fall right back asleep. Dizziness. Everything was comforting. That dreamy feeling of waking up on a cool night in a warm bed, with an equally warm body next to you. The hand upon his cheek was welcome; rough and large. Gilbert's hands were rough.

Gilbert was the East and he was the West.

There was the smell of clean linen and in the distance, roses. The aroma of laundered clothes, and when he exhaled he could smell faint traces of alcohol. That was, no doubt, the source of his amnesia of this bed. Drunk. He hadn't been drunk in a long time. Everything was fuzzy. The warmth was overwhelming, and he was on the brink of going back to sleep. Still felt loopy and intoxicated, even after catching a breather.

He started to drift.

And then there was a whiff of gunpowder, and he wrinkled his nose.

Gunpowder? Where had that come from? Gilbert could barely even hold a gun without getting a look of nervousness in his eyes. Alfred had put a gun in his hands once, hadn't he, and Gilbert had quickly dropped it with a nervous laugh and slippery fingers, and Alfred had smiled as he had knelt down and picked it up.

Alfred? No, that couldn't be right. Alfred hadn't come along until later. Gilbert and Alfred hadn't ever met face to face.

Ludwig frowned, and with a very slow lurch, like a vehicle stuck in mud, his brain was coming back into consciousness. The hand was warm on his face, and he reached up, tracing it with his fingers as the lightheadedness began to slowly recede.

_East of the Sun and West of the Moon._

He opened his eyes.

Dark.

Absolute dark. Then his vision began to clear as his eyes adjusted, and he could make out shapes. There was another bed down a short distance; the lump under the covers indicating someone sleeping there. On the other side of the room a window was covered with curtains; the moonlight that streamed through was faint crimson as it bled through the velvet draperies. A heater was on an end table, and the curtains fluttered with its airflow. The shadows that played across the room were swift and fleeting and created strange shapes on the walls that writhed in and out of focus.

A calm, cool, beautiful night.

He glanced at the hand that he was covering with his own, but its owner was the only part of this scene that was not was not living up to his expectations.

Ivan.

Fully clothed and pale hair shining white in the bright moonlight, he slept there on top of the covers, booted feet hanging off the edge of the bed, his hand on Ludwig's face. Stubble shining on his cheek. Ivan looked so different in sleep, looked far less frightening, looked younger than he was. He was so close that Ludwig could see his eyes twitching behind his closed lids in the deepest state of REM sleep, eyelashes gleaming as white as his hair. His breathing was deep and steady, and Ludwig wondered, absurdly, what Ivan dreamed about. What scenes played out in Ivan's head in the depths of sleep. Gunpowder. A pretty dress.

Red.

The comfort of the past was shattered as Ludwig came crashing back down to earth with a sickening jolt, and he remembered through a dark veil the travesties of the previous night. The dance, the awful feel of Ivan against him, the fight with the officer, the woman in the blue dress.

Oh, god. What had he done?

So stupid, he had been so goddamn _stupid_ , to sit there and drink like that. To take shot after shot, glass after glass, to not only allow himself to get drunk around someone like Ivan but to have actively sought out intoxication. To throw his hands in the air and let everything happen as it would. To passively allow Ivan to tell him what to do and where to go and what to think.

That he had just given up.

Ludwig had gone through hell and back to reach Gilbert, despite the odds and obstacles, and yet had just given in to Ivan, so easily. Ivan owned him out here, yes, that was true, but only out here. Back in the West, Ivan's world held no law, no say, and Ludwig wasn't his prisoner. Why had he just let go and accepted it? Hadn't he promised himself that he would escape from Ivan or die trying? Didn't want to live his life like these people, didn't want to just give up, and even if Gilbert really had just forgotten him then so what? There were other people in the world, there was still life out there beyond this mist.

Didn't want to stay here.

Didn't want to be lying here in this bed, nose so close to Ivan's, that hand there over his face. Didn't want this terrifying man to rule his existence and dominate him for the rest of what pitiful life he would have out here.

No way. Refused.

The apathy of the prior day faded, dissolved, and was replaced with the burn of survival instinct. It came roaring up as powerfully as that fear had, and the lurch of drunkenness faded as adrenaline cleared his head and his senses focused and honed. Wanted to get the hell out of here, and his body was responding to the flight impulse.

Now what?

He tried to gather a sense of his surroundings.

Ivan was passed out, so drunk that he had not even had the time to remove his boots. A good sign.

Didn't recognize this room, because he didn't remember coming up; too drunk by then. What he did remember was worse. He remembered being _so_ close to a horrible downfall, tottering dangerously on the edge of Ivan's clever cliff. He remembered the metallic smell of blood, the sharpness of gunpowder. The despair. The thrill. The awe.

Ludwig had glimpsed, perhaps not fully and certainly blearily, how _dangerous_ Ivan was. Not because he had held a gun and had murdered. Anyone could murder. There was something else about Ivan that made him so dangerous, something that was very real even if Ludwig could not quite put his finger on it. Ivan was soft-spoken and wily and absolutely calm, certain and self-confident and sure, meticulous and bold and fearless. Unshakeable. Unreadable. Unpredictable. Infallible. That serene, razor intelligence was more terrifying than any kind of cruel, brash explosion could ever be.

Ivan was impossible to overcome out here, because he was in his element. The only way Ludwig would ever be out from under Ivan's iron fist was to get out of the Soviet Union. Couldn't stay here, because this was Ivan's world.

Ludwig could only lay there and gather his will and wits, frozen in place, reluctant to move lest he wake then sleeping dragon.

Looking around as best he could, Ludwig tried to figure out what the hell came next. Needed to get out of the Soviet Union, but that was incredibly impossible as a whole, far too great a thing for him to even fathom, so it was better to take it one step at a time.

Firstly, get away from Ivan. Secondly, get away from this town. Thirdly, get the hell out of this wilderness. Lastly, make it to at least Moscow. Getting out of Siberia was his first step. Had to make it to Moscow, and if by some miracle he survived the journey then he could plan the next stage.

Right.

A gleam in the moonlight caught his eye.

Keys.

On the dresser, next to the vase of flowers, lay the keys to the car. His breath stopped, and he tried to read his luck. If Ivan was a heavy sleeper...

With gentle fingers, Ludwig took Ivan's big hand up within his own and lowered it down, slowly, slowly. It touched the sheet, and he withdrew his hand.

Ivan didn't stir.

Relief flooded his chest, and it was with determination that Ludwig squirmed himself as quietly as he could to the end of the bed, and he touched his socked feet down on the carpet without the softest of noises. Kneeling down, he groped in the dark until he found his boots. He pulled them on, and then he looked for his coat. Nope; it was on the edge of the bed, and Ivan's leg was over it, and he wouldn't dare try to pull it out.

He wouldn't risk it.

Shit, though, _really_ needed it. He looked around, dizzily, and saw Ivan's coat there on the chair, and made for it, pulling it on. Boots. Coat. Hat? Didn't see them anywhere, and couldn't afford to make noise searching for them. Well, then. Keys. He crept around the bed, and took up the keys stealthily from the end table. His heart was hammering so loudly that he was afraid Ivan would hear it and wake up. A quick step; the keys jingled in his hand, and he froze up in terror, watching Ivan with wide-eyed horror.

He could have died, then, for that terror. He couldn't breathe. Couldn't move.

Needless; Ivan slept on.

And for a moment, Ludwig stood there in between the beds, keys tucked into his coat pocket, and oh _god_. Felt so sick, then, so fuckin' sick, because he found himself standing there and staring at sleeping Toris. Toris, that jerk. Couldn't even move, he was staring at Toris so hard. He wanted to just turn on his heel and run, and damn if he didn't try. He lifted his foot, but it fell back down. Lifted it again, and it came back down.

Fuckin' Toris had left _him_. Why couldn't he move?

Why couldn't he get his legs working? Why was he standing there so foolishly, staring at Toris? Toris was not a friend, not in the slightest, and yet Ludwig stupidly considered waking him all the same. To wake Toris and to run away together. Stupid. Wouldn't work. Wouldn't, and he knew it, so why couldn't he move?

Toris.

An awful flash in his head of Toris standing there as cards were thrown on a table.

Ah, hell. He couldn't. He just couldn't. Couldn't _leave_ him.

_Shit_.

Gathering his nerve and knowing that this could be the end of the whole thing, Ludwig cast aside his better judgment and crept over to Toris' bed. If Toris made a noise, they were both done for, but he would give effort to Toris, at least, because the guilt would eat him alive if he didn't, and he was so guilty already.

Guilt, that he had let Ivan very nearly turn him against his brother. Oh, Gilbert. Dumb Gilbert. It had been so easy, with Ivan's smooth voice whispering in his ear, to take out aggression on his brother, but Gilbert hadn't asked him to crawl through that tunnel. Gilbert hadn't asked him to sneak into the heart of a _Stasi_ building. Gilbert had not asked him to foolishly confront a Soviet general. Gilbert had not asked him to take his place.

Gilbert had told him to run. Had told him to go home.

Ludwig had gone of his own free will and had made his own decision. No one had forced him. Least of all Gilbert. He had let Ivan twist everything.

So damn Toris better cooperate. Or else.

"Toris."

Ludwig shook him.

Toris shifted, and then opened bleary eyes, and when he saw Ludwig leaning over him he sat up straight with a sharp inhale and a look of clear panic. Panic? That was a first! What did Toris think was happening?

Toris opened his mouth, and was about to speak when Ludwig cut him short at the first word. But a noise still got out. With a wave of horror, Ludwig thrust his palm against Toris' mouth, and immediately, Toris' eyes snapped over towards Ivan, and for a horrible moment they sat there, Ludwig's hand covering Toris' mouth and nose, all but suffocating him, and they both watched as Ivan inhaled and shifted his weight.

They waited. Neither of them moved a muscle or breathed.

Then Ivan fell still, without incident, and Ludwig removed his hand and tried to tug Toris upright. Toris shook him off, gawking up at Ludwig as if he had fallen out of the sky.

"Come on," Ludwig whispered, mouthing the words more than he spoke them, but Toris was immobile, his chest absolutely still, as though he had forgotten how to breathe.

Ludwig clenched his fingers in Toris' shirt, and tried to pull him up again. Toris resisted the movement, and stayed firmly in place. Ludwig's ire was rising, and his patience was waning. Fear, starting to rise up from under the rush of adrenaline.

"Toris, come on. Let's go."

Nothing.

Toris opened his mouth, but nothing came out, and then he saw the gleam of the keys in Ludwig's breast pocket. He started to breathe again, and Ludwig met his eyes. Understanding. Toris knew for sure then that Ludwig was running, and Ludwig didn't get why Toris didn't leap upright and start running right along with him.

"Come on, get up."

Toris knew, understood, and didn't move. Looked suddenly horrified, looked alarmed, and in some way, Ludwig was almost certain that Toris looked _sad_. Distraught. As if Ludwig were asking Toris to leave his childhood home behind, as if Ludwig had asked Toris to abandon something he loved.

Realized, in that look, that he had made a mistake. Too late now, he had already woken the bastard up, and Ludwig glanced over at Ivan, feeling the apprehension weighing heavily in his chest. They had to go. Now. Before Ivan woke up.

"Get up!"

Nothing. Toris sat still.

Ludwig was panicking. Ivan shifted again. This game wasn't exactly funny, and this was the worst time for Toris to get cold feet. He'd leave the bastard, he swore he would, if Toris didn't snap out of it fast.

" _Toris_!" he hissed, and reached out, grabbing up Toris' collar and giving him a firm shake, thinking, perhaps, that rattling his brain around would set him straight, "Come on! Don't be _stupid_ , Toris! We have to go! _Now_! Get up!"

And Toris, god help him, only stared at Ludwig with wide eyes, as though he was afraid of even _thinking_ about getting up.

Ludwig was frightened, too, but that couldn't stop him.

"Toris, get up."

Toris looked at the closed door, then over at the sleeping Ivan, and then, as though he were on the verge of some horrible mental crisis, Toris bowed his head, squinted his eyes, and hissed, quietly, "No."

_No_?

That horrible look on Toris' face. That awful expression. Toris just wouldn't move. Like a deer caught in a bright light.

...in Ivan's light.

Toris wouldn't budge, and Ludwig was damn near distraught for it, but maybe not because he was just that good a person. Honestly? He didn't really _care_ about Toris, when it was all said and done. Toris wasn't his friend, wasn't anything at all to him except another obstacle, Toris didn't even like Ludwig, had never once been anything but harsh with him.

Hell, Toris had said that he had wished Ludwig had died.

Ludwig _needed_ Toris, more than anything, to guide him out. More than his bullshit of a guilty conscience, honestly Ludwig wanted Toris because Toris knew the way outta here. Didn't know where he was, not a clue, and without Toris his chances of survival were hanging at about the same level as the temperature outside. He didn't care about Toris; had just woken him up because he needed the son of a bitch.

But if Toris wasn't gonna go, if he refused, then there was nothing for it. Ludwig had no choice but to go it alone.

Feeling suddenly horrified, Ludwig let go of Toris' shoulders, backed up quietly, stared straight into Toris' eyes, and whispered, with a tremor, "I've gotta go. I've gotta go. Oh, _god_ , Toris, I have to go! I can't stay here, I can't. I gotta go!"

One final meeting of eyes, and then Ludwig turned and crept to the door, snuck out, leaving Toris behind. Left the bastard, and he felt shitty about it, if only for himself, but he couldn't waste any more time. He couldn't. If Toris didn't want to come, then what could he do? Toris wouldn't move. Wouldn't leave.

What could he do?

Toris made his decision, as Ludwig had, and that was all. Who could ever say what kept Toris here. Ludwig couldn't worry about it anymore.

He took a deep breath, pushed down the nausea, gathered his nerve, and shut the door as quietly as he could behind him.

Then he ran.

The hallway twisted. He remembered the two great staircases that sat opposite each other back in the entrance hall. If he could get back down there, he could find the door. He ran as quickly as he dared, while keeping a mind of his stealth. The hallway was long. Much longer than he had anticipated.

This damn place.

He passed door after door after door, 501, 503, 505, 507, and then the hall twisted again, and he ran into a dead end. He halted in his tracks, and, feeling the sickening adrenaline in his veins, he whipped around and went back the way he came. Shit. He must have missed a stairwell or an elevator door. But all of the signs were in Russian, and it was with a helpless frustration that he realized he had another problem in the letters. Those damn letters. He couldn't even read them; what if what he thought was a stairwell was actually a fire escape and an alarm came on?

Oh, he couldn't even fathom _that_ thought.

Backtracking.

He walked the entire length of the hall again, and when he passed the room where Ivan slept, he slowed to a crawl and crept by without a sound. _Christ_ , what if Ivan had already awoken and had slipped down the staircase and was _waiting_ for him?

He shuddered.

One of the scariest moments of his life, creeping through those empty hallways. The hairs on his neck stood up. An eternity of fear and doors, and when he reached the other corner after long minutes, he heaved a sigh of relief.

Stairs.

He went down them as quietly as possible, looking over his shoulder every few seconds in fear, and as he went down flight after flight, he realized how high up he had been, five stories, and when finally there were no more stairs, he was back in the hall. It seemed long, dark, and dangerous. Like something from a horror movie. The door that led outside stood before him, at the end of the hall. He crept towards it, passing by doors and fearing, every second, that he would get caught.

Couldn't ever remembered being so damn scared.

He reached the door.

He stretched out his hand, and froze for a moment. What if it had an alarm? Could he take such a risk? Well. Didn't have a choice. Couldn't stay here any longer. Deep breath. Steady. He could do this. Chest flooded with dread, he brought up his trembling hand and grabbed the doorknob. He twisted it. He could feel a bead of sweat running down his neck.

Come on.

Terror.

Go.

He pulled the door open.

...and there was nothing.

Oh, thank _god_. _Thank_ god.

He yanked the door open all the way, and all relief instantly faded as he was harshly struck still. The fuckin' cold slammed his chest like a train, so hard and so fast that not even all of that adrenaline could stop it, and Ludwig froze up there in the doorframe, immobile in shock. Couldn't breathe. His lungs had seized up, and there was that awful crackle in his nose again as his sinuses froze right over. The white in the corners of his eyes, as those ice crystals formed on his eyelashes.

A horrible vulnerable minute, and then air came back, he inhaled even though it hurt, and he stepped out into the cold and shut the door behind him. Too late to go back, too late to return, too late to be a coward and call it quits.

Had to go, because he had already woken Toris up, and Toris was probably waking Ivan up that very second.

No going back. He had always known that, but goddamn, this _cold_ —

The full white moon hung above him, as the snow glittered all around. He took another step, and then another, already furiously shaking, and the great courtyard stood before him, the sparse trees hanging low with snow. There was no sound; only quiet.

Silence.

The snow and cars glistened with the light of the moon, and the air stung his lungs. The snow crunched beneath his feet as he stepped down the short staircase, and then there was icy pavement below. He walked as quickly as he could without slipping, reaching into his pocket and taking out the keys. Fingers already numb. Couldn't feel them at all, so quickly.

He reached the edge of the circular parking lot, and stood still. There were _so_ many cars. All black. Did they really have to look exactly alike? Oh, how could he possibly know which one was Ivan's? He was gonna freeze to death right there in the car lot before he could even figure out which one was which. He'd have to guess. Unbelievable. Best to go in order, then.

He started at the left row, at the beginning of the half-circle of cars, and stabbed the key at the lock as best he could for his frozen fingers.

It did not turn; he passed to the next.

No.

Another. Not this one.

Snow drifted from the branches of a tree as he tried another, and he looked up in panic. Just an owl, though, staring down at him with golden eyes, almost accusatively, as though it _knew_ what he was doing. He would have laughed to himself had he not felt so sick, as he stared back at the raptor, and maybe it was just one of Ivan's spies.

The key did not turn, and he passed on to the next.

The owl began to hoot.

Minutes passed; the cars were endless. He kept trying. With every second, his motor functions faded.

Hoot.

He thought he heard, over the silence, a click in the distance. He was halfway through the circle.

Hoot.

Every time he moved, he could _swear_ that someone was watching him. He could feel it, could sense it, but when he looked this way and that, there was no one. Maybe just his mind playing tricks on him. The cold was getting to him. He carried on. It was slow going, with his numb feet and trembling fingers. He could barely function. So cold. Already lethargic and dazed. Could barely see, because the ice coating his eyelashes was longer with every single blink and was starting to obscure his vision altogether.

And then finally, mercifully, he dug the key into a door, and it turned.

He moaned in relief and pulled open the door and leapt inside without a second glance, his fingers and nose totally numb and shaking so hard from the biting cold that he could barely fumble the key into the ignition. Couldn't feel his feet, even through his boots. Hard to breathe, and his head was muddled. Felt oddly confused, even, and wondered if it was because of the cold shutting him down.

Finally the key slid in. Ludwig took a breath to steady himself.

He turned the key.

There was nothing. He tried again. Nothing. He turned it again, and now a cold-sweat broke out onto his brow, and the air around him was so cold that the moisture quickly froze there in the roots of his bangs, piling up on top of the rest of the ice coating him. But that was the least of his concerns, suddenly. He turned the key again. And again.

Only a sputter.

"Oh, _start_ , you piece of shit! Start! _Start_!"

Desperate and terrified, he banged his fists down on the dashboard, as hard as he could, and now the tears of frustration were threatening to fall, stinging his eyes and momentarily blinding him, adding more ice onto his lashes.

"Start!"

He turned it again.

Oh, why wouldn't it _start_? His heart was racing so terribly that he was afraid he would pass out.

He turned it again.

Christ almighty, it wouldn't start, it was frozen, and he would sit here until he was frozen too or Ivan finally woke up and came down and found him—

"Oh, _god_ , please! Please! _PLEASE_!"

A final, desperate twist of the key, and the engine finally roared to life. The lights came on. The radio crackled with static.

"Yes!"

Triumphant and barely suppressing a squeal of glee, he banged his fists on the dashboard one final time, turned the radio off, and fell backward into the seat. Watching his breath linger in the air, he gave in to his relief and leaned his head back, and closed his eyes, calming his heart. He didn't dare drive away straight off; he would only shoot the frozen engine to hell, and then he would be in an even worse spot. At least the tank was full. Toris had been smart enough for that. He wondered, blearily, how cold it had to be for petrol to freeze. Wondered if that ever happened out here.

He reached out and fumbled with the knob of the heat, and flipped it on high.

And he waited.

The dizzying adrenaline slowed into a warm throb, and he sighed, shivering as he wrapped his arms around himself and spaced out, waiting for the engine to warm.

The ice on his lashes began to melt, slowly but surely.

It had been too close. Too close. Far too close. Shouldn't have even risked waking Toris up. Not worth it. No one had come barging out after him. Hell, maybe Toris was taking pity on him. Or, more likely, Toris was just trying to get him killed. Toris hated him, made no effort to hide it, so maybe Toris was just letting him go because he knew Ludwig would eventually get himself killed.

Eventually, maybe, but not tonight. Not here.

The mixture of hot fear and freezing air was making him sleepy. Lethargically, he tilted his head to the side, gazing up at the sky as he passed in and out of consciousness. It was hard to stay alert, still half-drunk as he was, and especially with such cold air. He was afraid to fall asleep, but the Sandman was persistent.

He drifted.

The sky was crystal clear. Not a cloud in sight. The stars were absolutely countless, bright and lucid and shimmering. The ground was covered in glistening, glittering snow. The moon was high; full. His breath fogged the glass. Only the moon. No sun. If East was the Sun, and West was the Moon, then he was alone here, because there was no sun in this land. No room for Gilbert for the perpetual fog. It didn't matter. Gilbert was far away.

Gone.

Everything was absolutely still, not even the slightest of breezes, and he heard only his own heart, the purr of the motor, and the sound of his breathing. The smell of warm, musty leather.

Blearily, he smiled to no one, and breathed to himself, "Oh, god. Oh, god. You son of a bitch. You're so smart, aren't you? But so am I."

His breath puffed gently in the air and stayed there for an interestingly long time. The heater was so slow to warm. The crystals yet coated his eyelashes, although his nasal passage had warmed up.

His eyes fluttered shut, and he heard voices of the past.

_Aim._

When had Gilbert dropped the gun? Ludwig had only been fifteen or so, so it couldn't have been Alfred who had handed it to him. Why couldn't he think straight? No, wait, it had been Erzsébet, hadn't it? Gilbert had put a gun in her hands as a joke, and she had dropped in it surprise, giggling apprehensively, and Gilbert had rolled his eyes as he had picked it up off the floor.

...was that right?

_Fire._

Minutes passed in absolute peacefulness, and he struggled in and out of sleep as the freezing air dragged him down. He longed to just give in and _sleep_ , and dream. He preferred dreams to reality nowadays, if he could just hear Gilbert's voice one more time. To hear encouragement. To hear Gilbert urging him on, like he always had before.

_Ludwig, good marks again? I'm proud! You're a smart little bastard, just like your brother._

Just once more.

_You're so smart, but..._

Once more.

_But..._

Even for a second.

"Not as smart as me."

Ludwig's eyes snapped open and his heart stopped when the warm, sly whisper drifted into his ear. Shock, strong and so powerful that it had knocked the senses right out of him. His hands trembled so terribly then that it moved his entire body, and it wasn't from the cold anymore. Shaking, and it was with wide eyes of horror that he slowly, so _slowly_ , turned his head to the seat behind him.

And then everything froze up, time as completely still and icy as the world outside. Even his breath stopped, the last visible vapors lingering in the air.

Silence.

He couldn't move. Couldn't think. Couldn't breathe.

No air.

Because Ivan was sitting in the back, pale eyes glowing silver in the moonlight, his own lashes long and still icy, leaning forward so that his elbow was rested on the edge of the seat. His legs were spread in casual disinterest as he smiled at Ludwig, so close that their noses nearly touched.

Oh, _no_ —

Oh god, how had he not _seen_ him? How had he not _seen him_? Oh, shit, he had been so fucking _stupid_ to jump in so blindly without even _looking_ , and he had been lost in the hallway and then in the courtyard so long that of course Ivan would have had time to get down there before him and sneak in the car and lay low until he was completely off guard.

Shit. Oh shit. Oh shit.

Ludwig was trembling so terribly that he couldn't have even tried to reach out and open the door and run, and when he finally woke up, when reality finally hit him, his tremble became that of anger, and his hands clenched.

Toris.

Toris had woken Ivan. Toris had _told_ him.

Betrayed and hurt and unfathomably furious, Ludwig could only smile breathlessly when Ivan reached out and ran a gloved hand down his cheek, and he was shaking from more than cold. So angry. So fuckin' angry, couldn't even function then he was so angry. _Toris_. That little _bastard_. That hopeless, miserable little _bastard_. That motherfucker. That goddamn back-stabbing son of a bitch. When he saw him again, he would do Toris a favor and _kill_ him and put him out of his goddamn misery.

"Where are you going?" Ivan asked, voice low and calm and husky from sleep, and when Ludwig only stared at him blankly, he leaned in closer, pressing their noses together, lips barely ghosting his own. His lashes began to melt in the heater, drops of water falling down his stubbled cheeks. "Where are you going?" he asked again, hand stroking Ludwig's cheek absently, and Ludwig finally found his voice.

He nearly giggled in a fit of absolute insanity, feeling so scared that elation was almost a defensive reaction.

"Anywhere you're not," Ludwig whispered, still smiling, and after a second of silence, Ivan pulled back, observing him with a tilted head.

A long stare.

"Ah."

For a moment, Ludwig could see a flash of disappointment running through Ivan's pale eyes, and he was almost reminded of a child that had been given a wonderful present, only to have it snatched away before he could open it because it had been given to him by mistake.

Psycho.

"A shame," Ivan muttered, withdrawing his hand from Ludwig's cheek, balling it into a fist and leaning his chin atop. "You know, I thought we were beginning to understand each other. So, then, you're running from me. That hurts my feelings, Ludwig."

Feelings? What feelings? Ha.

Ludwig reached out and gripped the steering wheel to hide the shaking of his hands, and it was with a defiant air that he lifted his brow and said, voice thin with suppressed rage, "Fuck you. Fuck you!"

Not exactly the most intelligent of responses, but witty comebacks had never been his forte.

Another silence, and then Ivan leaned back fully into the seat with a heavy sigh, wiped the water from his face, rested his hands on his knees, and it was with a scoff and a shake of his head that he reached into his pocket. "Yeah," he muttered irritably, as he dug around for something, "We'll get around to that eventually."

Then, over the crushing silence and thick atmosphere, there was a single crisp click. Ludwig didn't need to second guess what it was, blood turning to ice as much as everything else, and then Ivan scoffed once more.

"You want to go so badly?"

He leaned forward, and something cold and hard pressed into the back of Ludwig's neck.

How was it that with Ivan...

"Drive."

...he always seemed to come out second best?


	15. Black Snow

**Chapter 15**

**Black Snow**

Stifling his nausea, Ludwig changed the gear, lifted his foot from the brake, and the car lurched forward. As he pulled out, Ludwig thought he heard Ivan mutter, under his breath, "You're lucky you're so damn pretty," and then hissed, irritable Russian.

The snow crunched under the tires.

The courtyard went by far too quickly, and then there was the beginning of the road, and Ivan was suddenly whispering in his ear, "Slowly. Very slowly. If you crash my car, I will be very upset. I like this car."

This ridiculously shined car. Figured.

"You _would_ ," he grumbled back under his breath, and Ivan just snorted.

The tires crept along over the sheet of ice, and Ludwig could barely keep a grip on the steering wheel for the shivering of his hands, and someone, should they have been passing, could have simply walked by the car faster than it could drive. Slower than slow, and Ivan's breath was warm on his neck. An errant hand brushing through his hair. Gentle motions.

"Keep going."

Where were they going? Was this the part where Ivan drove him out into the middle of nowhere and shot him, like he had thought he would back at the Czechoslovakian border? The gun pressing into him was a good indication.

"I'm curious, Ludwig," Ivan suddenly whispered, wiping again at his eyes, "Where did you think you would go? Did you really think you could just drive back to Berlin? Did you think you could drive out of Siberia? Do you know where you are? It would take you months! You'd be dead by then."

It had been foolhardy, yes. Stupid, even. But...

"I had to try," he grumbled, and Ivan laughed.

"Well! Are you satisfied then, now? You tried. But," he leaned in, pressing his cheek into Ludwig's with narrowed eyes of victory, "I win again."

Again.

Ludwig gripped the steering wheel and bit his tongue.

"I always win, Ludwig. Always. I will never stand to lose to anyone. Even if I have to cheat. But hey!" He leaned in, and placed a swift kiss on the side of Ludwig's head, "That's between us, yeah?"

Arrogant. Prideful. Self-confident and always so sure.

Gilbert used to rig the rules of board games so that he would not lose to Roderich. Gilbert would use his hands to keep Ludwig from scoring a goal when they played a friendly game of football.

"You know," Ludwig began, voice deep and barely a whisper, "maybe you should have kept my brother. You and him could have spent all day making up your own rules."

Gilbert never lost. Ivan always won.

A silence, and then Ivan drawled, "Nah. You are much less annoying. Despite this."

The trees passed by. The town lights were behind them. The snow glittered in the lights of the vehicle. He could barely feel his fingers. He was shivering. The silence was overwhelming. The gun in the back of his neck was uncomfortable, and the stroking of his hair was more so.

How did he find himself in these insane situations? Couldn't stand it.

"Now, you tell me," Ludwig finally said, to break the suffocating silence, "Tell me. Why does Toris do everything you say? Why won't he leave? He's not a real soldier, either. What have you done to make him so dependent on you? Why won't he leave?"

He almost didn't want to know, and he was not sure why he asked. Maybe to get a glimpse of what was in store for _him_. Maybe just to know whether he really should kill Toris or not.

A short silence.

Ivan gave a deep, "Mm," kissed the side of Ludwig's head again, and seemed to be gathering up his thoughts and words. Then he said, "Why does he stay? That's the easy part. Because I made him somebody. With me, Toris owns the world, too. That's all. He likes power. I gave it to him. He likes to hurt people. I let him. Why wouldn't he stay? Who doesn't want power?"

Well—

Before Ludwig could speak, Ivan carried on.

"Toris is so moody, isn't he? Don't let him scare you. He acts tough, but he's not. He's a coward, he always was. All I have to do is slam a door, and he can't even move. Have you ever really heard the slam of a door, Ludwig? Not knowing when it's going to open again? It could be hours. It could be days. Or maybe never. It's interesting, to see how long someone can last in a locked room before they go crazy." He pressed his lips into Ludwig's hair and added, "Toris only lasted four days. The first time. The second was two. Then one. When we get back home, maybe I'll try you out. I bet you'll last a lot longer, brave as you are."

Was that it? A locked room seemed much less brutal than he had been expecting, not the torture he had been dreading, and Ludwig almost felt relief.

"Have at it," he said, and Ivan's little leer was grating him.

"So confident! I like that. You and I will have good times together! I like you, Ludwig. I do. I was not expecting that, really."

"I try."

Ivan laughed, and seemed in far too good a mood suddenly, considering the circumstances. Ludwig narrowed his eyes and looked ahead at the white road, and said nothing more.

They drove. The lights in the distance were faint. They had gone perhaps a little more than a kilometer, at a slow crawl, before Ivan finally sat back and said, "Stop here."

He slid to a halt, and the gun pressed harder into his neck.

"Get out."

Get _out_? Was this the end of the line?

Ludwig grabbed the handle, and somehow found the strength to open the door, and god, as soon as he stepped into the night air, his skin froze again, and he tucked his hands immediately under his armpits, damp hair already once more icy. That now familiar cracking, and the lengthening of his eyelashes. Hell, he'd only been outside for a day and already knew the drill.

Ivan got out too, gun held steady, and then he took his ushanka off and tossed it forward. Ludwig barely caught it, hands trembling as they were, and then Ivan sat down in the driver's seat, and Ludwig realized with a dawning horror what was going to happen :

Ivan was going to _leave_ him here.

In the cold.

Resting his elbow on his knee and holding his head up with his palm, Ivan watched him, eyelashes frosting over eerily as he eyed Ludwig up and down, as Ludwig pulled the ushanka down over his ears and struggled to tie it, and then Ivan smiled.

"Well," Ivan said, long lashes casting shadows over his cheeks in the moonlight, and inclined his head towards the wilderness, "Here's your chance! You want to go? So go! It's two hundred and fifty kilometers back to Mirny. Or, like you had planned, eleven _thousand_ kilometers back to Berlin. Better start walking. Maybe you'd even make it until sunrise before you froze to death." Ivan looked at the thermometer in the car, and said, to himself perhaps, "Eh—only minus fifty. It's fine."

_Fine_?

Ludwig bit his lip to keep his scream of frustration at bay, and Ivan's smile fell into a sneer of what could very well have been annoyance as his good mood suddenly foundered. As though, perhaps, he should not have had to get out of his warm bed in the middle of the night just to deal with such frivolous things. Beneath him, no doubt. This was probably something Toris should have been doing.

"Or," Ivan continued, "It's just one kilometer back _there_." He pointed at the dull, glowing lights behind them. "If you can walk even that. Don't be a fool, Ludwig. Germans came out into these snows once. It did not end well. You're not a fool. You'll make it. I know you will." He reached out and grabbed the handle of the door. "I'll be waiting for you. Hurry up, won't you? I want to go back to sleep. Oh! And don't you ruin that coat! That's mine."

With that, Ivan shut the door, and Ludwig could only stand there, completely numb, and watch as Ivan turned the car around, and the vehicle glided over the ice back towards the town, and Ludwig was alone.

Alone. Out in the snow. In the middle of Siberia.

A dumb thought crossed his dizzy mind, and he nearly laughed; fuckin' Ivan, driving himself for once in his life. Hoped it was tortuous. Bastard.

For a long moment Ludwig stood completely still, in absolute horror and disbelief, and then the rage rose up within him like a volcano and he kicked the snow in Ivan's direction, screeching to no one, " _Goddammit_! Goddammit! You son of a bitch! Fuck! _Fuck_! I'll _kill_ you when I get a chance! Do you fuckin' hear me? Oh, god! _God_! _Goddammit_! I _hate_ you _so_ fuckin' _much_!"

Pointless, screaming at no one like a little kid, but he couldn't help it.

So furious.

He whirled around, punching the trunk of the hapless tree that just happened to be the closest. The bark scraped his skin, and he watched in horror as the blood that crept to the surface froze before it could even drip.

His anger faded into something that felt like hopelessness, and from there into complete despair. What did he do? What the fuck did he do now? Die out here in the snow? Try to walk back? He didn't want to go back to town, not there, but what choice did he have? He couldn't stay _here_. Death was a certainty.

And death was one of those things that was much easier to talk about than to actually do. It was easy to say to himself, 'I'd rather die!', but when death was suddenly a very real possibility? The latent survival instinct kicked in. Now, he wanted to live.

Goddammit.

Cursing to himself and wishing that he had never awoken stupid Toris in the first place, Ludwig dragged his feet out of the snow and began to walk. It was like walking through knee-high sand. Slow, hard, and exhausting. The ice clung to his boots like dumbbells. His lungs hurt.

It was only a kilometer. One little kilometer. Hardly an arduous journey.

...in theory.

Gritting his teeth to keep them from chattering, he lunged forward through the snow, trying to step back into the road for easier trekking. But when he slipped and fell, and then again, and again, he realized that he was simply trembling too much to balance himself on the sheet of ice. With a low brow, Ludwig slid back down into the snow, with only the distant glow of the lights as a guide.

Couldn't be worse. It couldn't have possibly been any worse. Bad damn luck was all he ever had. Could barely see anything, and he reached up very quickly to knock the ice from his eyelashes, but it was very quickly replaced, and pulling his hands out from under his arms hurt too much.

The forest beyond was pitch black and completely still. He dreaded even looking into it, so dark and imposing it stood. Who knew what was in there.

Alone. Vulnerable. Helpless.

He walked, and walked, and with every step he took his legs were becoming less and less steady. His pace was slowing into a lurching stagger, and the snow was falling down into his boots. It melted, and the freezing water around his feet stung like needles before it eventually refroze. His chest ached and his lungs were burning, but he didn't stop, even when his eyelids began to stick together every time he blinked.

He couldn't stop. A minute's delay would be disastrous.

The meters passed. It wasn't that far. It was only a kilometer. Not so far. He had gone over two kilometers in that awful death tunnel, and in total darkness. God, it was so _cold_ , though. Absolutely insufferable. Hell, made of ice instead of fire.

He walked.

The idiotic run through the forest in Brno may as well have been a pretty summer day in comparison.

And walked.

Minutes dragged. His pace continued to slow. At one point he stopped, trying to catch his breath because the cold air made it so hard to breathe. He only stopped for a few minutes, that was all. Just a few miserable minutes.

When he finally tried to walk again, his boots were stuck in the ice. It took every ounce of strength and determination in his body, every shred of it, to reach down, grab his knees, and physically yank his boots up from their icy death-trap. Another godawful jolt of terror. Couldn't even stop, couldn't even get a breather, because he wouldn't have the strength to do that again. That was a mistake that he would _not_ make again. No more stops. He tried to carry on, as best he could.

Couldn't breathe, and couldn't stop.

Every step felt like it took a year.

His hair was frozen to his scalp, even underneath the ushanka. His shirt was quite literally freezing to his skin beneath his coat.

He looked down. The snow was endless. He couldn't feel his feet. He was walking on nothing. He couldn't feel where he was placing his boots, and had to watch the ground to make sure his feet were falling flat.

His pace had turned into a crawl.

Everything _ached_ , but maybe the sluggishness of his body was not what should have concerned him.

His feet were numb. Didn't most of the body's heat leave through the feet? The feet and the head, or so he had heard. His feet were completely frozen. That was _not_ good. Because with every step, every foot, every inch, every second, his thoughts were swimming further and further away, and his mind was slipping, and a word kept running through his head :

Hypothermia.

He was becoming hypothermic. His blood was turning to ice within him, in every sense. Hit him fast, too. His balance faded. His vision started going next. And then his alertness. He felt sleepy. Lethargic. Everything was blurry. He tried to shake his head to clear it, but it was no use. His mind filled with fog. The lights guiding him were hazy.

Another step.

Faint.

One more.

The lights were closer, but still so far.

...couldn't really find the will for one more step after that. So _far_.

He looked around, as a thought suddenly struck him. Where was Toris? Nowhere in sight. No trace of him. Toris had left him again. Again.

A dull throb in his head, and the cold was slowly becoming less unbearable. He kept walking, somehow, although he couldn't really remember anymore lifting up his legs. How long had it been now? An hour? Two? Ten? A whole day? He had no sense of time. Just cold. The snow was deep and endless. Colorful dots danced before his eyes. A wolf howled somewhere in the distance. Speaking to the moon.

And then suddenly, as he looked over his shoulder, and then back at the lights, Ludwig realized that he didn't remember why he walking out here. The fuck was he was _doing_ out here? Certainly, this was a very poor lapse in his judgment, to take a walk in such weather, alone. Why would he do such a thing?

The trees here were dark. Endless.

Stars up above.

He looked up, in a moment of dazed dreaminess, and tried to pick out familiar constellations. He couldn't seem to focus long enough to find any. Huh. Oh well. Furrowing his brow, he picked up his wobbly foot, and took a step forward, and then stopped, reaching up and scratching irritably at the ushanka. It was starting to bother him. Too hot.

It wasn't that cold, on second thought. He probably didn't need it.

His fingers were clumsy and very stiff, but still he managed to untie the flaps, as he began to stumble forward again, and it was with relief that he yanked the fur hat off of his head and tossed it down onto the road. That was better. It was almost too warm. Uncomfortable. Ugly thing, anyway. He felt better without it.

He carried on, and then he could see the outline of a town in the distance. It seemed vaguely familiar despite the blur in his mind. Had he been here before? Who could say? He knew that he should go there, because Ivan had said so, but as to how he had wound up out here in the first place...

Where _was_ Ivan, anyway? And Toris. Had they forgotten him? Left him behind? Buncha assholes. Ditching him like that. Hadn't they thrown that ball for him? What kind of jerks tossed the subject of the party out of the fray?

He couldn't think.

The forest thinned.

There were buildings suddenly, small houses in rows, streets of ice, pretty cottages, and he staggered up to the nearest one, stumbling for his numb feet, and brought his fist down on the door. There was no sound from within, and he tried again. Nothing.

Numb.

He passed on to the next, and now he could feel a stir of anxiety within him, because he was certain all of a sudden that something awful was chasing him, even if he couldn't put a name to it, and a great fear hung over him. No one answered. Where was everyone? Maybe he had stumbled into a ghost town. He moved on to the next house, and this time he collapsed against the door as he knocked, as a horrible wave of lightheadedness overtook him, and maybe the town was empty because Ivan had killed everyone.

Gunpowder.

He knocked again.

His eyes closed. He just wanted to go to sleep. He was tired. Drifting. Ivan's hands were rough and warm. Ivan's hands were always warm, no matter how cold it was outside. How was that?

Suddenly, he was freezing again.

He knocked again, as the shiver returned. He thought he would faint. Strength left. Energy drained. Exhausted.

And the door finally opened.

A sudden warm light cast out on the snow, bathing him in its glow, and a beautiful woman stood in the frame, her golden hair shining yellow in the firelight. A pretty dress. Long hair. He couldn't really grasp too much of her, honestly, drunk and dazed as he was. Swaying, with the effort of standing.

There was a silence as they stared at each other. He was shivering so terribly that he couldn't even speak, but he didn't need to. She gave him a long hard look-over, raised her brow in what could very well have been amusement, took a step back, and held open the door. Ludwig staggered inside, and made it only a few paces before he collapsed on the floor before the fireplace, holding his arms around himself and digging his boots into the floor.

Thank god, thank god.

Burying his face into the rug, he couldn't even think right as she shut the door and then came over next to him, kneeling down and whispering, " _Kto vi_?"

Didn't understand.

She placed a hand on his shoulder, and for a moment she was silent. She might have been smiling; he couldn't really focus on her. He could not stop shivering. His hair was frozen to his head.

" _Vi poteryani_?"

A soft voice.

Maybe he was dying. He couldn't feel anything. Not even his chest when he breathed. Nothing.

She raised her hand up and placed it upon his frozen hair.

Finally, he managed to raise his head, and met her eyes, a pretty dark blue, and smiled. Even though he didn't know if she could understand him, he said, voice slow and a bit slurred for the mist in his mind, "Hey! Thanks for letting me in. I think someone was chasing me!"

He dropped his head back down and giggled in a random bout of giddiness, and she fell down onto both knees, and now her eyes were a bit stern as she said in surprisingly fluent German, "Are you drunk? Did you go out and get lost or something? I thought you GDR type were supposed to be the smartest."

GDR?

...oh, _right_! Right.

Suppressing another giggle, Ludwig said, "Oh, yeah! That's right, I'm—" a snicker "—I'm Colonel Müller!"

His voice felt strange; thin and scratchy. She stared at him with a low brow.

How ridiculous, hearing himself say that name. Not his name. Maybe there was a colonel out there somewhere with that name, but it sure as hell wasn't him. Colonel, alright! Ivan wasn't here; maybe he could be a general, too. She wouldn't have known.

General Nobody.

He burst into helpless laughter at the thousands of thoughts running through his head, and she only shook _her_ head and reached down, removing his boots as he burrowed his freezing nose in the carpet and tried to compose himself. She seemed exasperated, more than anything. Probably thinking to herself, ' _Men_.'

The giddiness that flowed through his veins would have, perhaps, alarmed a doctor, but Ludwig found it quite welcome. After all that terror, after all that strife, it was nice to feel _happy_. Even if it was killing him.

His wet boots and socks gone, she grabbed his ankles and dragged his legs towards the fireplace, placing them down as closely as possible. She was hovering over him again, and he couldn't really help but notice how pretty she was as she leaned down, met his eyes with a smile, and said, "You kept your hands under your arms at least. Guess that was smart of you." Her eyes drifted down to his feet, and she smiled, almost luridly. "You might lose your toes, though, _colonel_."

He barely heard her, and wrapped his arms over his chest, and as the ice in his hair began to melt, he found himself thinking, absurdly, that Ivan would be angry that he had lost that ugly hat.

He came in and out, as she kept on looking him over. She couldn't really seem to stop staring at him, and he didn't know why. Well—he did look good in the uniform, or so Ivan said.

A low, rumbling giggle.

Her hair tickled his face as she leaned down all the farther, and asked, "What were you doing out there?"

Wished he knew.

"I don't remember."

He didn't, but it had been pretty dumb.

She leaned down somehow closer, her nose nearly bumping into his own, and added, "I think you're up to something."

He smiled, bleary eyes darting over her pretty face in the midst of that utter excitement, and, hell, maybe he was. Couldn't remember. She was damn close, and he couldn't stop staring at her, opening his mouth and asking, quite lowly, "You comin' on to me or something?"

She snorted.

"You _are_ very handsome," she suddenly whispered, right at his ear, and even through his delirious overexcitement there was something then in her cool voice that made him shudder just a bit. "And very young to be a colonel. Blond, blue-eyed, pretty face. You look like _his_ type."

His type? Who?

Damn, was she ever close.

She reached down, sweeping his freezing bangs from his eyes with very gentle fingers as a mother might. She placed her palm on his forehead, as though checking temperature. Soft hands. Then she leaned it and pressed her chest against his, so close that for a stunned moment he thought she would _kiss_ him, but she only pressed her nose into his collar, as if taking in the scent of his coat. Well. It wasn't _his_ coat, was it? A second of thoughtfully narrowed eyes, and she suddenly whispered, "Ivan."

Ludwig shuddered.

Ivan.

"I knew it," she muttered, a bit irritably, but he was hardly aware of her annoyance; all he could think was, _'Whee_!'

The room was spinning. He felt giddy and sick and tired and cold and somehow, beneath it all, so frightened.

Where was he?

Too many emotions at once. His brain wasn't working right.

She pulled back, and her fingers were suddenly not so gentle as she grabbed his collar with both hands and pulled him upright at the waist. Deep blue eyes boring into his own, she clenched his collar so tightly that he could barely breathe, and it was with a sharp tone that she said, voice low and dangerous, "Where are you going? Are you running? From _him_? Are you?"

He could only stare at her in a numb stupor.

"Huh? Are you trying to run from _Ivan_?"

He could not think quick enough to answer her questions.

"You're a new one, aren't you? Aren't you?"

Her voice was becoming high with what could have been anger.

"Aren't you? Answer me!"

He couldn't. He couldn't find his voice. Dumb and numb and so confused, above all else. So confused. Didn't know where he was. Who he was. Where he had come from. Hadn't ever had a damn name. How could he figure out where he was going if he didn't know where he had come from?

She shoved him back down on the floor, and his head began to pound with a dull pain as his chest started to clench up. Moving too fast. Everything was starting to hurt. His heart was palpitating strangely. Everything seemed to slow down. What was _wrong_ with him? Guess he was dying, after all.

Then she crawled on top of him, straddling him on either side, and her knees pinned his arms into the carpet. For a dumb moment, he looked up at her, and didn't really remember how he had met her, or how he knew her. Did he know her? Sure was pretty, though. Her cheeks were about as sharp as his. Wished he could remember who she was, though. Maybe one of those girls Alfred had tried to set him up with.

Hands rested atop his chest, and suddenly he was squirming a little. A strange woman on top of him? Ah. Right. He tried to open his mouth and say, 'Listen, lady, this is a little fast for me,' but he couldn't. Couldn't seem to speak, suddenly, as if his throat had clenched up, and, to be perfectly honest, there were far worse things in life than coming to consciousness with a pretty woman straddling him.

He could live with that, he guessed. Sure wish she'd at least get her knees off of his arms, though.

He furrowed his brow and stared up at her, as though through a fog, and waited for her to do something, but she just sat there, and she was not smiling. Was she _glaring_ at him? Had the date gone badly? Ah, hell.

Actually, on second thought, she was pretty damn _scary_. Kinda wished she'd just get offa him altogether. Suddenly not a ride he was looking forward to, and he squirmed again, but this time in an effort to wriggle out from under her.

No go.

She kept him pinned quite easily, weak and dazed as he was, and asked, "Ivan brought you home with him, didn't he?"

When Ludwig didn't answer, she leaned down, her hair falling back down into his face. Her voice was soft. Too serene. Void of emotion. Rather terrifying.

Ludwig squinted his eyes a little, and would very much have liked to say, 'God, get on or get _off_ , lady, 'cause you're startin' to creep me out.' He opened his mouth, and nothing came out.

She sure did start talking, though, very randomly.

"You know, ten years ago, Ivan and I were engaged." Ludwig would have gawked, if he hadn't been so out of it. Ivan, engaged? Ha! That whacko. "We both lived in Moscow. This was a long time ago. My father was a general, you see, and he promised Ivan a quick rise through the ranks if he would take my hand. Ivan's family name has a long history. Very honorable! Until the last generation, anyway. A noble name to my father, for his only daughter to take. Ivan's father was military, too."

She ran her hands down Ludwig's neck in slow, gentle movements. Comfort. He felt sleepy under her smooth hands. He closed his eyes.

She kept on blabbering, and he didn't pay quite as much attention as he should have.

"Ivan became a general at twenty-eight! Unprecedented, you know. _I_ did that. That was me. He wouldn't have gotten anywhere without me! And then my father died, and do you know how Ivan repaid me? He went out on a tour, and when he came _back_ , he had that useless little coward, Toris, with him! You met Toris, didn't you? Sad, isn't he. You know what Ivan did then? He called off our engagement! He shamed me in front of everyone. My reputation was gone. I was alone. And I made his life a living hell for it. Then Ivan moved all the way out here just to get away from me. Not that he admitted it, but I know it was to get away from me."

She laughed, now, and Ludwig could only shudder beneath her, and open his eyes.

Suddenly, her hands weren't quite as gentle. Nails, raking his skin.

"But I followed him. I came here to Lensk. Can you—! Can you imagine his surprise when he held his first ball here and _I_ show up? He was so upset that he threw me out into the cold and went back to Mirny with his tail between his legs! And then he told me if I ever showed up uninvited again, he would shoot me! Coward, just like Toris. Ivan is all talk, you know. He can't run from me forever. He ruined me. And now..."

She trailed off, shaking her head, and Ludwig was suddenly frightened. Hadn't asked for her damn life story.

'Oh, that's terrifying, thank you,' Ludwig would have said, had he been able to. He tried again to squirm away, and was again unsuccessful. Just wanted to get away from her.

She reached into the waist of her skirt, and pulled something out. A shine in the light.

And when Ludwig made out the shape of a knife, his brain suddenly came back to life as though someone had flipped on a switch.

Adrenaline surged.

Holy _shit_ —

She gripped the knife in both hands, and held it in contemplation in front of her chest, staring at it as if she'd never seen a fuckin' knife before, and she added, "It's not that I _need_ him, you see. It's just that..." She raised the knife up above her head. "I just want him to be with me forever, so that way he can be miserable. I would ruin him, as he ruined me. And, well, I would be lying if I said I didn't love him a little. Just a little. I hate him more, so I want him to be miserable. He deserves that, don't you think?"

Well, yeah, but—

_What_?

This woman was fuckin' insane. She made no sense, even to his disjointed mind. He could barely process her words, eyes frozen on the knife in the air. He had the alarming sensation that he was about to be stabbed by this woman he didn't even know.

She just smiled down at him, and carried on, the knife clenched in hands that were suddenly trembling in anger.

Her voice changed.

"But now, every few years, he brings home someone _new._ What a disgrace to my father's memory! I told him, you know. If he wants to be with someone, it should be me. I've always been here, all along. We were supposed to be _married._ I got him where he is! _Me_! My family's hard work. _My_ dedication to him, _my_ father's guidance after _his_ father went crazy. Without me, he and his dumb sister would have frozen in the streets. _She_ could never hold a job, the poor twit, and if he hadn't gotten up to general so fast they would have starved to death! And he repays...he repays me with _you_? Look at you! Who are you? Where he did pick you up from? He took you up as easily as one does a stray _dog_!"

She braced her arms, and was still smiling, even after that rant, even through her anger.

"It's alright, though. If I kill you, it will make him angry. Hurt him a little. Maybe it will teach him a lesson about playing with girls. You know, some of us do take these kind of things so personally. It's not your fault, I suppose. What a shame, because you really are handsome. Well. You should have run a little better. You have to be smarter to get away from Ivan. Farewell, colonel."

He panicked.

A flash of steel, a quick lunge. He had only a second to react.

Gathering the very last of his strength, he kicked off the ground with his numb legs, pulling one of his arms out from beneath her knees with clumsy speed just as the knife was coming down. He knocked it at the last second, and the edge of it cut into the side of his forehead. She tried to raise it again, and he acted; one fierce blow to the side of her head, and she fell over, and he crawled on top of her as she clawed out for the dropped knife.

His chest was killing him, but he kept on.

"Stop!" he cried, as he ripped her over onto her back and grabbed up her wrists in his hands, pinning her down, and her eyes were blazing with absolute fury as she tried very hard to knee him in the stomach. "Stop!"

She struggled beneath him, cursing and spitting like a viper, and he wasn't sure that he would be able to keep her down for much longer, as that adrenaline rush started fading, and he was fading too, but then she suddenly fell still, out of nowhere. She stopped moving, stopped cursing, stopped fighting, and he didn't know why, but he was grateful, because he fell still too in exhaustion, the only movement that of the drops of water and blood that fell from his forehead down onto her collar.

Coulda died, it felt like. His heart was lurching unevenly.

Her eyes were terrifying. Just voids of rage and hate and _nothing_. Crazy. He feared her, he realized, more than he did Ivan, and he hadn't thought that was possible.

A silence between them, and his head was swimming, his heart racing, and god, he was still so _cold_. So cold. He couldn't breathe. The adrenaline that had saved him was seeping out. He was going to fall over. Faint.

Dizzy and tired, he closed his eyes and bowed his head, and managed to moan, as his heart lurched, "Stop. Just stop. Please. Please. Listen."

He shook his head to clear it, and when he opened his eyes, she was staring at him with an exceedingly alarming intensity.

"I'm listening."

Everyone out here was fucking _crazy_.

"I don't care about you and Ivan. You want him? So what? Why don't you just _help_ me? Just help me. Help me get out of here. Help me. You don't want me here. I don't want to be here. I wanna go _home_. Help me."

He lost his strength and fell silent in both exhaustion and confusion. For a moment, she stared up at him, and the burning in her eyes dulled down into an almost calculating coolness. Hell, she almost seemed exasperated again, like she was dealing with a child.

Another silence, and she said, curtly, "Let me up."

He did.

But he reached the knife first, and grabbed it up, tucking it into his waistline. She watched him calmly, and then waved her hand to the couch as though nothing extraordinary had occurred. "Please. Sit."

Like she had invited him for tea or something.

Still, he did not need to be told again, and collapsed upon the sofa, mindful of the knife, falling down onto his side wearily. Immediately, he began to fall into unconsciousness, and he heard her walking around, pacing back and forth, as though she were deep in thought.

He faded. The edge of his vision was black. Could barely breathe. His heart kept on lurching in that strange manner.

Then she knelt before him, and grabbed his shoulder. A gentle shake.

"Hey, hey, can you hear me?"

He struggled to look up at her. So weak. Everything had left him after that tussle.

She placed two warm fingers on his neck and felt his pulse. A smile, and she said, "Ivan must be really taken with you. No one has ever made it to colonel before. And to throw another ball." Her smile feel into a sneer. "You must have raised some hell. He would be so upset if something happened to you. But maybe I can use you, too. Maybe he would even be grateful if _I_ had saved you. Ha. What do you think? I think so."

He barely comprehended her words.

A pang in his side. Aching, everywhere. Stars across his vision.

Her eyes darted across the room, and then finally she added, "Listen, I'm going to call someone now. You're dying of hypothermia. But do me a favor; when they get here, don't even tell them how bad you feel. Your heart will just stop on its own after a few hours. Death will be a blessing to you, yeah? So don't tell, okay? You said you wanted out. This is the way, okay? Sounds good, doesn't it?"

So dizzy.

She met his eyes, as much as he could focus anyway, and she reached out and placed her index finger over his mouth, hissing, gently, "Shh!" She smiled. "It's just a game! How's that?"

A hand in his damp hair.

For whatever reason, he smiled too. A silent game, huh? Death was his prize. As good a game as any, he figured, and he was too damn dazed now to really think about it too much.

Finally she left the room, sounds of bustling from the kitchen, and then he heard her voice, very soft and very smooth, as though she was speaking to someone. He thought he heard the sound of a phone being slammed down.

His vision blurred. He couldn't stop shivering suddenly.

_Bang!_

Everything was spinning, too fast, too hard, and maybe he could understand why Erzsébet had dropped the gun. The feel of steel, even just from a knife, was almost overwhelming. Scary, in a way. Cold.

Or had it been Roderich? Maybe it had been Roderich. Erzsébet had found one of Gilbert's guns, and had tossed it to Roderich playfully, and Roderich had fumbled it straight to the floor, jumping back from it as though it would bite him. But then, Roderich was a fan of culture and poise, not of firearms and bullets. Roderich could not hold a gun up straight, let alone hope to shoot one. Roderich, with his aristocrat's hands.

He felt like he was swimming. His chest hurt. He wanted to go home.

Home.

Home? He wasn't certain where home _was_ anymore. Didn't seem to belong anywhere. Always lost, one way or another.

He shifted, just a little, and suddenly there was a sharp, burning pain in his heart, in his chest, in his neck, and he could not help but hiss aloud at the ache. Felt as if he really had been stabbed, and then a great dullness settled over his mind, and he realized that he was no longer cold.

Warm. His cheeks were reddening with what felt like a heat flash. Shock. Numbness. He moved then, sitting up long enough only to squirm out of Ivan's coat and throw it on the floor.

Time passed.

The room was warm. Too warm. Uncomfortable. His fingers began to twitch. Colors faded into dullness. Muted. Monochrome. Time passed and slowed down.

And then there was a knock on the door.

_Lutz, I'm home! Miss me?_

Ludwig opened his eyes and watched with mild confusion as the door swung open, and there was a flurry of snow, and then pale hair in the firelight. Footsteps.

Gilbert?


	16. Dead End

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**Chapter 16**

**Dead End**

Elation.

Gilbert had come home. So late. The hour felt very late. Gilbert never stayed home. Always out.

Grabbing the cushion of the sofa, Ludwig pulled himself up with a great effort, and smiled. Because there was Gilbert standing before him, he was sure of it, and suddenly there were cool hands on his face, and Gilbert was kneeling before him, speaking gently and running fingers through his hair. A forehead pressed into his own, and he closed his eyes.

A whisper.

"Are you alright?"

He could only nod, vaguely remembering that the pretty woman had told him not to mention any pain or discomfort, and then he reached up with unsteady arms and embraced Gilbert around the neck, burying his face in his shoulder, moaning, "I missed you!"

Missed Gilbert so much, _so_ much, just wanted him to stay _home_ for once.

Even though his mind was blurry, and even though his heart was beating irregularly, and even though his head was pounding, Ludwig never stopped to think that maybe...

"You missed me? Ha. I'm..."

Strong arms embraced him, and there were lips on the top of his head, a pleased laugh in his ear, warmth against his chest. The lips brushed his cheek, suddenly, and then his nose, and it was with effort that Ludwig added, fondly, "Why were you out so late, Gilbert? I was worried about you."

A silence.

And then there was a soft, sharp, "Gil—oh, _damn_."

Gilbert pulled away from the embrace quickly, and suddenly, when he looked up, it wasn't Gilbert anymore. Hadn't ever been, actually. It was Ivan, and he was staring down at him with a furrowed brow and stern eyes. His eyes were grey, not wine, his skin was light beige, not translucent, and his hair was pale gold, not silvery. Not Gilbert.

Ivan.

Tall and broad-shouldered and imposing. Overwhelming. Powerful. Terrifying. Handsome.

Ivan.

But even though it was just Ivan ( _just_ Ivan? Since when had he only been _just_ Ivan?), Ludwig found himself smiling nonetheless. He felt a return of that strange flow of exhilaration in his veins, that giddiness, almost like he had swallowed one of those pills that Gilbert used to take sometimes before he went out to a rave. He could not seem to find a very good reason to be upset at all, and hell, Ivan _was_ kinda handsome in his own very rough way, whatever else could be said about him. Not conventionally attractive, no, but Ludwig found him appealing after a long look-over. Guessed there may have been worse things out there.

Ivan's power was entrancing, even to good people.

His hands wound up on Ivan's face, somehow, and he said, in a slur, "Oh, it's you! Well, then, why were _you_ out so late? I was looking for you. I think you got lost."

Another silence, and then Ivan sighed in what could have been exasperation (why was everyone so damn annoyed with him, anyway?), and took Ludwig's hands within his own, pulling Ludwig up from the couch with one mighty yank. The movement made his chest clench up with a terrible pain, and for a dizzy moment, he thought he was having a heart-attack.

No air. Drowning.

It passed, though, and then Ludwig saw Toris standing over near the door.

Toris.

Ludwig reached up immediately and waved clumsily, but Toris didn't wave back, rolling his eyes instead, and Ludwig remembered, after a moment of thought, that he was angry at Toris, although he could not remember exactly why. Didn't matter anymore, anyway. Felt so content. So elated.

Ivan looked around the room, and then dragged him over to a door, and when he kicked it open with his foot, breaking it off its hinges, Ludwig muttered, chidingly, "You're gonna have to fix that, you know."

Ivan only grunted, "Yeah, yeah."

There was a bed, and Ivan settled him down onto it with slow movements. He grabbed up a heater from the floor and moved it up onto an end table, and when he turned it on, Ludwig frowned. It was too hot in here already.

Toris was beside him suddenly, looking him up and down, and Ivan leaned down next to him, gripping his hand and saying, "Don't move. I'll be back soon. Get warm. You're freezing."

Footsteps, and then Ivan was gone. Ludwig turned his head to Toris, who averted his eyes, staring off at the wall and crossing his arms over his chest. His foot was tapping furiously, and from the twitching of his lips, he obviously was struggling with something that he wanted to say. Ludwig could only stare up at him, and search through the mist to try and grasp the memory of why he should be angry at Toris.

_Come on! Get up!_

A walk in the snow.

Alone.

A jolt of something, and he said, aloud, "Toris! I wish you would have come with me. It was a pretty night."

A scoff, and then Toris was at his side, reaching out and grabbing his hand, and even through his delirium Ludwig could see the distress and maybe anger in his eyes as he cried, "You're so stupid! I had to do it, you know? I had to! You would have gotten lost. You would have ran out of gas, and froze to death out there in the middle of nowhere. Stupid! What were you thinking? I had to stop it, you idiot. Don't you... Don't you understand? Don't you even know where you _are_? You can't just up and drive and _make_ it somewhere out here! You can't! You woulda died."

Ludwig had a strange urge suddenly to reach up and slap Toris across the face, but he was distracted momentarily by how _hot_ it was, and the giddiness was overwhelming anyhow.

Wasn't it Toris who had wanted Ludwig dead not so long ago?

His toes were stinging, as though someone were shocking them. Something warm was dripping down his forehead. He reached up with numb hands, trying to unbutton his shirt.

"Can't you turn the heater off?" he asked, as he fumbled with the buttons, and Toris furrowed a brow, eyes wide in what looked like alarm, and Ludwig didn't understand why everyone was acting so _strangely_.

"Ludwig, stop."

He looked over. Ivan was back, and the woman was at his side, and from the looks on their faces they had been arguing. Ivan's cheeks were red with anger, his fists clenched at his side. What, had he done something wrong again? Ivan always seemed to expect something from him.

Ludwig opened his mouth, but then Ivan was suddenly upon him like a tiger, bushing aside his bangs and observing the cut on his forehead with a critical eye. Mutters and irritated noises. Ivan looked over his shoulder, at the woman behind him, and the danger in his voice was audible as he hissed at her in Russian.

...had she cut him? Ludwig couldn't remember.

She crossed her arms above her chest, quite immune to Ivan's words, and then Ivan turned back to him, running a gloved thumb over the cut. He met Ludwig's eyes, and whispered, with an almost disappointed click of his tongue, "I would have had you cut anywhere but your face."

A movement at his side, and Toris was gone.

Every motion around him felt so blurry and disjointed.

The woman was staring at him over Ivan's shoulder, and she held her finger up to her lips and winked at him, trying to communicate with him. Ludwig smiled back at her, and when Ivan pressed forward and kissed Ludwig's forehead, she spun around on her heel and stalked out.

Then it was just him and Ivan.

Sitting down next to him, Ivan threw a heavy arm around his shoulder, and shook him.

"Hey. Look at me."

He did, as best he could, and Ivan's cool eyes bored into his with that unnerving intensity that he had almost become accustomed to.

"Do you remember what happened?"

Remember? He remembered being cold. He remembered walking for what felt like an eternity.

"Do you know where you are?"

He was so tired. He couldn't feel his damn feet, and Ivan's questions seemed annoying. He shook his head, all the same. Ivan removed his gloves, and when he ran his hand down Ludwig's neck, he frowned.

"Oh. You haven't warmed up any. How are you feeling? Your chest doesn't hurt, does it?"

Ludwig heard a faint, ' _Shh_ ' in his ears, and smiled.

Right! Game on.

"No, no, I'm fine," he said, and was pleased that he was playing 'the silent game' with efficiency.

Ivan and Gilbert cheated, but so could he.

A furrowed brow from Ivan, as if he thought something was off, but when Ludwig leaned over and rested his weary head on Ivan's chest, he smiled. After that, there was hardly any concern in his eyes as he reached out with steady fingers, smoothing strands of Ludwig's damp hair gently, and it was with an almost cheery voice that he said, "Ah, well. Don't worry about it! Sometimes, when you get too cold, your head can get a little strange. Almost like drinking a lot of vodka." Then Ivan was suddenly holding his face in his hands, and added, "But! You are very determined, aren't you? I like that. I do." Ivan repositioned them, then, into a laying position, side by side, and pulled the cover up and raised it to Ludwig's shoulders. He reached over and took up a cloth from the end table, propped himself up on an elbow, and began to dab at the blood on Ludwig's forehead. "You're not afraid of anything, are you? So brave."

Afraid?

Afraid. Yes. He was afraid of that woman. He was afraid of _Ivan_. Even if he was not quite sure why. Afraid of everyone and everything out here.

Ivan seemed oblivious, and leaned his head down towards Ludwig's.

"I left you there because I knew you would be strong enough to come back. Brave enough. I love that about you. I probably could have put you out farther, and you still would have made it. See? I knew you'd come back to me. I was right." A coy smile. "Just can't stay away from me, can you?"

The cloth was tossed aside, and then Ivan leaned over and pressed their chests together.

Come back? Was that why he was here? Had he come back for Ivan? Ludwig squinted his eyes in thought.

Not much time to figure it out, though; Ivan was upon him and their noses touched, and Ivan's gaze was much more intense. He snapped fingers in the air to draw Ludwig's bleary attention, whispering, "But you know, bravery and stupidity can sometimes be the same. You won't _ever_ get out of here without _me_. Understand?"

That look.

Ludwig nodded, and Ivan's look and words cut through his delirium like a knife as he whispered, "If I ever catch you running again, something bad might happen to your Gilbert. Don't you remember your end of the bargain? You took his place, remember? That means you stay here. You go where I tell you to go. You made a deal; I expect you to honor it. For your brother's sake. Don't ever try to run again. You made a deal. I kept my end. Keep yours."

For a moment, Ludwig could only lay there, caught under Ivan's eyes and weight, and maybe it was just the heaviness in his chest, but when Ivan shook him and asked him again, "Will you stay with me?" Ludwig nodded.

A deal.

A deal. He had made a deal. Bound by blood. And Ivan's statement seemed to make perfect sense in his fuzzy mind. He had made a deal. A contract, and, as Roderich would say, contracts could not be broken. Honor, before all else. A deal was a deal.

"Are you going to run again?"

How could he? He shook his head.

" _Now_ ," Ivan whispered, breath warm and look calmer, "we are understanding each other."

Were they? Maybe he would never understand Ivan. But then, he had never really understood Gilbert, either, but that had turned out okay, for the most part. When they hadn't been fighting.

Gilbert. Oh.

Ivan reached out and began to stroke his hair, gently.

Just wanted Gilbert.

"Hey. Don't worry about it so much. I know you'll stay here. You'd like it, if you gave it a chance. You don't have to be scared. It's alright. I'll take care of you. It's not so bad out here, you know? Come here. I wouldn't ever hurt you."

Warmth, as Ivan rested above him with his full weight. Ludwig closed his eyes, and leaned back, allowing Ivan to do as he pleased. Too tired to struggle anymore.

Gilbert had done his part. Ludwig had repaid him. They were even.

A deal.

Even if he would never see his brother again, even if he never spoke to him again, if he never again could picture his brother's face in his mind, even if Gilbert forgot _everything_ , it was alright. Gilbert could forget, and Ludwig would stay here, and keep a silent vigil over his brother's life from afar. Maybe that was just another game, because as long as he stayed here with Ivan...

Ivan fell against him, muttering heavily, "You're so cold still! Here, I'll keep you warm."

...then Gilbert would stay safe.

Maybe he could somehow win, in the end.

Hands grabbed his face. He did not have the strength nor the will to break away. Lips against his own. Fingers tangled gently in his hair. A heaviness on his chest. A scrape of teeth down his neck, and then his collarbone. Hands roaming down to his chest, fingertips brushing his abdomen. A knee in between his legs. Everything was warm.

A laugh.

"Oh, you're so brave, aren't you? Look, you're so quiet."

God, it was so _hot_ in here. Stifling.

Ivan was far too warm on top of him. Any fear that he would have felt completely forgotten in a haze of warmth and sudden dizziness, he pushed at Ivan's chest and said, dazedly, "Get off. Aren't you hot? It's so hot in here."

A thoughtful silence from Ivan. Another sharp pain in his chest.

...where _was_ he? Good god, he didn't know where the hell he was.

Then Ivan reached up and ran a hand up under Ludwig's shirt, laying his palm on his bare chest and feeling his heartbeat. A moment of narrowed-eyed concentration, and then he frowned.

"Too slow. You said your chest didn't hurt."

Ivan reached over and ripped open the drawer of the end table, searching through its contents with fervor. Then he grabbed something, yanked it out, and when he leaned forward, he placed it in front of Ludwig's mouth and said, quickly, "Under your tongue."

A pressure in his mouth, something hard under his tongue, and Ivan watched him with a very intense expression. It stayed there for a few minutes, and Ludwig realized, vaguely, that it was a thermometer. He did not notice when Ivan removed it until he was holding it up in the air.

So far away.

Ivan sat in silence, staring up at the mercury, and finally he whispered, more to himself, "Thirty- _one_?" A horrible stillness. Quiet. And then, with a snarl, Ivan suddenly grabbed his shoulders and shook him, gently, hissing, "Hey! Why didn't you tell me? Why didn't you tell me what was wrong with you? Huh? You took the hat off, didn't you? Didn't you? Why? Are you _stupid_? Huh? Are you?"

_Shh! It's just a game!_

Smiling at the absurd look on Ivan's face, Ludwig could only reach up and put his finger above his mouth, saying, "I'm playing a game. I think I'm winning, but I'm not sure."

He was determined to win, come hell or high water, and Ivan wasn't going to ruin it for him.

Ivan stared at him with a low brow and wide eyes as Ludwig started fucking giggling again.

Could help it. That look on Ivan's face. Had never seen that look. Was utterly comical to him, seeing that iron man looking so breathless and alarmed, to see his eyes that wide and his mouth hanging open like that.

Then Ivan leapt from the bed, crying, " _Shit! Shit!_ "

Ludwig could only wonder, as he tried to roll over and nearly fell on the floor, what was going on, and why it was so mercilessly hot in this room. Ivan's strong hands stopped him from falling over the edge, and Ivan said, "Stop! Sleep, now. You have hypothermia. She knew, didn't she? She told you, didn't she? _Damn_ , I should have noticed it earlier! Don't move! Your heart might give out. Be still! But don't worry. I know what to do. Don't you move!"

The hands were gone, and Ludwig could only squirm around as Ivan covered him with the blanket and shouted, "Natalia! _Natalia_!"

The heater was suddenly blowing onto him from the edge of the bed. He tried to kick at with his feet and knock it over. Too damn hot. What was Ivan thinking?

A gentle slap to his face.

" _Stop it_!" Ivan hissed, as he grabbed the heater and pulled it forward. "You're not hot. Stop it. It will pass soon. Just stay still."

And then the woman, Natalia no doubt, was in the doorway, eyes narrowed and arms across her chest, and Ludwig could not remember where he had met her. Ivan began to scream at her in Russian, and Ludwig tried to sit up, squinting his eyes as he watched them hissing back and forth like snakes. Where had he seen her?

His heart was lurching in his chest.

"Hey," Ludwig called, suddenly, and even though she was waving a finger in Ivan's face and Ivan was puffing out his chest and shoulders, they stopped and turned to look at him. "Ivan, is that your wife? You should have told me that you had a wife. She's so pretty."

They stared at him, Ivan's brow coming down, and Natalia smiled as if flattered.

She said, immediately, "Yes. I'm his wife! Remember, I told you?"

Ludwig could swear, even through the delirium, that Ivan shuddered. And that was pretty damn funny, too, so he started cackling again.

Ivan whirled around in anger and grabbed her arms forcefully enough to make her wince, shoving her out of the door without gentleness, and Ludwig tried to lean over and take off his socks. Couldn't get his hands to work right.

"Ludwig."

He looked up, blearily. Ivan was watching him from the frame.

"She's not my wife."

"Oh," was all Ludwig could manage, as Ivan watched him with an odd expression.

"She's not."

Didn't see why Ivan was so intent on Ludwig knowing that he wasn't hitched, but alright.

Minutes of silence passed, as he laid back onto the bed, exhausted and dizzy, and then Natalia was back. In her hands she held a bag of liquid, and a clear tube. Even in his daze, Ludwig knew an IV when he saw one, and could only watch dumbly as Ivan took it from her with sharp words and then sat down on the edge of the bed, grumbling as she left, "Crazy bitch."

Ludwig looked over at him, and said, dutifully, "You shouldn't call your wife that."

Ivan glanced at him through narrowed eyes and said, "She's _not_ my wife. Remember? I told you that already."

Before Ludwig could think of a response, Ivan reached out and took his arm, bringing Ludwig's hand up and looking over it as though he were performing an inspection. His hands were warm, like always, and gentle. He pushed his fingers into Ludwig's wrist, head tilted, and then muttered, "You don't have very good veins."

No, he didn't. Gilbert and Roderich had taken him to the doctor after Roderich had found him, and the doctor said he was dehydrated and needed fluids, but he tapped here and there and poked over and over again before he found a vein that would hold. So many pricks; Gilbert had held his hand the whole time, firmly.

Like Ivan was now.

Ivan as a whole was terrifying, but his hands were appealing, rough and big as they were.

Ivan clenched his hand in between both his own, and began to rub back and forth. It was uncomfortable, as his numb skin began to warm and sting, but Ivan smiled down at him the whole time, and that made it a little better because Gilbert had smiled at him, too. And everything had turned out alright in the end.

A deal.

"I might have to put it in your wrist," Ivan suddenly said, meeting his eyes. "Alright?"

Ludwig didn't respond, watching Ivan's hands rubbing his own with something close to fascination. A few minutes of heat, and then Ivan raised his hand again and looked it over. He picked up the needle, and brought it down until the tip of it grazed his skin.

"Why don't you close your eyes?" Ivan said, as he held the needle up above the outer bone of his wrist. "This will hurt a little."

Ludwig obeyed, squinting his eyes shut, and there was a dull, throbbing pain as the needle sank down past the bone and into a vein. A tug and a sharp sting, and Ivan's hands left for a second, and then they were back, tying the cord in.

And then there was a sudden flow of warmth through his veins, and, god, it _hurt_.

Felt like acid.

"Sorry," Ivan murmured, as Ludwig ducked his head down and clenched the blanket, "It has to be hot. Your blood is too cold. This will help. It won't hurt for long."

A silence.

Minutes.

"Feel better?"

Ludwig could only hang his head, as the fire burned his veins and ripped below his skin, and Ivan was suddenly pulling him back down onto his back. Wanted to cry, suddenly. That giddiness had faded into utter exhaustion. Frustration. Felt so helpless.

"Don't move. Go to sleep."

Warm hands were on his chest, and Ludwig finally opened his eyes.

Ivan was lying next to him, on his side, and his face was calm and serious as he dug the tips of his fingers into Ludwig's chest, above his heart, massaging up and down. A meeting of eyes, and Ivan said, "To get the blood back to your heart faster." Ludwig lowered his eyes, watching Ivan's fingers, large and strong and yet oddly gentle, and then Ivan was smiling again. "Out here, everyone has to know how to treat hypothermia. Even children. It's so cold here, you know. This happens a lot."

His head was killing him.

Ivan seemed bright enough, though, now that the needle was in, and added, "Say! You survived the snow again. Maybe you were meant to be born Russian."

Him? Russian? He didn't know why—god, he couldn't think—but Ludwig laid back in the pillows and started to laugh. Ivan hovered over him the whole time with that constant smile, whispering words of encouragement and admiration in his ears, and even though Ludwig had spent his entire life being taught to hate the Soviet Union...

It was funny. He felt something close to comfort.

No one had ever spent hours telling him how strong he was, how brave and fearless, how he was better than all of _them_ , whoever _they_ were, and how beautiful. No one had ever really seen him and had thought he was worth going through trouble for. No one had ever spoken to him the way Ivan did. No one had ever shamelessly complimented him for no damn reason.

Ivan was watching him. Watching him. He never looked away. Always watching him.

It was alright.

The fingers continued to massage his heart. The fire in his veins was dulling. The unbearable heat was dissipating. Everything was cold again. The mist was thinning.

He could get used to the cold. He had always liked the moon more than the sun, anyway.

Ivan fell in beside him, placing the bag of fluid on the wooden head of the bed, as the shiver returned with a vengeance, and Ivan was quick to soothe, "Don't worry. That means your body is waking up again. Don't worry. It'll be alright. I won't let anything happen to you."

Ivan wrapped him in his arms then and held him to his chest, and oh, god help him...

Ludwig pressed forward, burying his numb nose in the collar of Ivan's shirt, because it was _so_ cold and he was _so_ lonely and there was no one here that he knew and Gilbert was _gone_.

The delirium of hypothermia slowly began to fade, and he hated himself for being so reliant on Ivan for survival, and he had never been meant to be born a Russian. He was a German. He was not made for this cold. Hadn't ever been, but he would bear it nonetheless, because it was for Gilbert. To keep Gilbert safe.

He had made a deal, to stay in this snow.

And he _remembered_ , finally, as Ivan ran rough fingers through his hair and the fog began to lift, that it had been _him_ , all those years ago, who had dropped the gun.

Gilbert had placed it in his hands and came around behind him, and when he had held it the correct way, Gilbert lifted his arms up straight, his chest pressing warmly into Ludwig's back, and he had raised his hands up, up, until it had been level.

_Aim._

His heart had been racing the whole time, and when Gilbert had gripped his hands tightly and screamed, ' _Bang_!' in his ear, Ludwig had jumped so hard that he fumbled the gun straight to the floor.

_Fire!_

Gilbert had laughed, as he knelt down on the floor and picked it up, and Ludwig had been annoyed, but then Gilbert had come over to him and slapped him on the back, his eyes more serious, and he had whispered, ' _I'm glad. I don't ever wanna see you have to hold a gun. You won't ever need to. That's why I'm here, to protect you. I'm all you need._ '

Gilbert could not have known that there would come a day when a gun would be of absolutely no help, when he would not be able to _protect_. Gilbert had cared for Ludwig more than anyone else ever had, in his own unusual way. Gilbert hadn't ever been perfect, hadn't been that great of a guy, but he had loved Ludwig, and Ludwig had loved him. Ludwig would never forget _that_.

He wouldn't run again.

There was only Ivan now. Only this cold. That was _his_ decision. There was no one to blame but himself. It was not Gilbert's fault. It was not Toris' fault. Not anyone's. A mixture of bad decisions on all parts.

Ludwig fell asleep, as Ivan held him close, and when the IV was finally empty several hours later, when the threat of hypothermia was only a vague memory, Ivan sat him up and began to whisper in his ear, and was quick to remind him, just in case he had forgotten, who had saved him from the cold, again, and who had brought him back from the dark, again, and who had stayed at his side while he recovered, again, and who had kept him safe.

Again.

His decision. He wouldn't run again. No good ever seemed to come of it, and Ivan's patience might not have been without limits. Always failed, every time. Ivan always won. He was tired.

It was too cold outside.

Ivan's hands were always warm.


	17. Into the Trees

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**Chapter 17**

**Into the Trees**

Now what?

Sure, it had been easy before, holding the map within his hands as Roderich's pretty writing squiggled a line this way and that through the streets, leading him straight down to even the very gates of Hell. But now what?

The sky was grey, ever darkening as the hidden sun fell lower and lower. Snow fell. It wasn't so cold. Chilly, maybe, but not very cold.

Gilbert looked down at the map.

He knew _where_ to go, alright; the line still went on, straight through Berlin, straight through Dresden, straight through Prague, and down into Brno, tidy and sure and never faltering. He had gone straight on through Berlin, using buses like he had so many times in the past, and he had gone all the way down to Dresden, and he had walked the streets there to calm himself before he had traveled down and down, closer and closer, and then there was a problem.

Because Roderich's pen could flow straight through the Czechoslovakian border. He could not.

Roderich's pen was waiting in Brno.

And Gilbert was stuck in the far outskirts of Dresden, pacing back and forth on the sidewalk, as the border crossing stood down the road, and he was slowly beginning to realize that he had been perhaps a bit hasty in his decision to come alone. He should have brought that big dope Alfred, who at least had a passport, and who at least could use both of his hands efficiently.

He didn't have a valid passport. Hadn't ever been able to get the visa, and had just let the damn thing expire. Could have gotten a new one, Roderich could have gotten him one, but there hadn't been time for that, and Roderich had been far too wary of catching that general's attention. Paranoia, but one Gilbert shared.

He had no choice but to border-hop.

Shoulda brought Alfred.

Hell; too late now, and he gripped the map in his hands as he studied it, as cars and pedestrians passed him by, going down and passing straight through the gates without any hindrance, just because of their papers. It wasn't fair. Never had been.

Whether it was fair or not, there was no point in lingering here; the roads were too busy, the guards too many, and the chances too few. He couldn't pass here.

Rolling up the map and pulling his coat tightly around himself, he started off back down the snowy road from whence he had came, and when he spotted the first taxi, he leapt inside and said only, "Zittau."

"No problem," came the relaxed drawl, and as the paved world of Dresden began to give way to forests and hills, Gilbert opened up his coat, and pulled out his wallet.

Its contents were as dismal as his mood.

No I.D. One paper, with Roderich's office number scribbled down. A small, folded string of thread. A sewing needle. Two Band-Aids. 300 Western Marks, down from the 1000 that Roderich had given him. 200 Eastern Marks, from what he had scrounged up in his flat.

And one 100 United States Dollar bill, that Alfred had bestowed upon him with the wise words of, ' _If you're in a tight spot, just pull this baby out and say, 'Let's let Mr. Franklin do the talkin'_!''

A substantial amount of money. Alfred had only given it to him for the sake of Ludwig. And Alfred had also only given it to him because Alfred had been fully intending to go with Gilbert, but Gilbert had slunk out in the middle of the night.

The gun in his waist pressed uncomfortably against his belt.

Time passed in silence.

It was dark. The sky was clouded. A pale, blurry ring of white light that struggled to break through the front was all that was visible of the moon. The moon was hidden. No stars. He hated the night. Wished Ludwig's sun woulda been here.

The taxi driver tried to make small talk; Gilbert ignored him, leaning his head against the window and watching the towns pass, and with every minute, he could feel the horrible tightening of anxiety in his stomach. An hour or so later, the vehicle finally slowed to a stop, and he was so close to passing out or vomiting or running away that he barely even remembered stuffing money into the driver's hands and staggering out of the car back into the night air.

He clenched his hands at his sides to prevent them from trembling, and stalked off into the dark town streets, and he did not stop until the buildings thinned and the streetlamps were few and far between.

He settled under the very last lamppost on the street, and pulled out his map.

Once he passed out of the town, then there was the forest, and he _wished_ that he had brought a compass, because Zittau was nestled right in between the Czechoslovakian border as well as the Polish one, and if he got turned around and unwittingly wound up in Poland, then it would take effort that he was unsure he possessed to get back on the right path. Already exhausted, as it was.

He looked up at the white sky. No stars. He could not use them, if he would have known how.

Cursing to himself, he ambled off from under the light and back into the dark, and set off out of the town limits. There weren't any buildings anymore. Small houses dotted the horizon on the hills that rose up. Just one dirt road. The street was lined with trees. Everything was dark. The snow shimmered.

An hour of walking. His feet hurt. His head hurt. His legs were sore.

Another hour.

His hand throbbed from the cold air. His pace was slow. His ankle was still a bit tender. Ludwig had endured such pain for him. Maybe more.

Lights loomed in the distance, people talking and dogs barking, and he knew he had reached the border crossing.

It was time.

Maybe Ludwig was in pain right now, too.

Gilbert leapt from the road, and, with a great breath to steady himself, darted into the dark, ominous forest. The trees were scraggly and tight together, and he struggled to push through the underbrush as thorns and briars snagged his pants, and his movements made clumps of snow fall from the branches and into his hair. It fell down the back of his collar, and he shivered, but he pressed forward regardless, holding his arms up beside his head as he pushed through the branches. There were patches of briars so tall and so thick that he was forced to head off to the side and find a way around them, and everything was so _dark_. He could barely see what was in front of him. The trees were tall and unmoving, there was no wind, and everything was far too quiet.

Quiet.

What lived in these woods? Monsters, maybe. Just wanted to go back to hectic, loud Berlin, where things made sense.

He pushed on. He had hoped the forest would be more manageable. It seemed that, instead of formulating valid plans, he just _hoped_ for a lot of things. He was an idiot, alright. Always had been. Thinking ahead had always been too much effort.

His fingers were numb. His hands were bleeding, after pushing aside so many thorns. His back was wet with melted snow.

He pushed on for what felt like hours.

A sharp pine branch scratched his face, and a briar from behind caught in his pants firmly enough to make him stumble forward.

He fell.

A pang. Utter exhaustion.

And for a dazed moment, as he laid there in the thorns and weeds, in the dirt and patches of snow, Gilbert just wanted to close his eyes, and go to sleep. His chest was aching, his hands stung from countless pricks, and it seemed for all the world like the undergrowth was just going to creep over him and swallow him whole. Maybe the forest had a mind of its own.

He rested his head on the ground, and closed his eyes. He had spent so many days of his life like this, it seemed, layin' face-down in the dirt, dazed and confused and so tired, not knowing where he was.

_Gilbert, I wish you wouldn't drink so much._

He had always wound up letting someone down.

_Won't you stay home, just tonight?_

Usually Ludwig.

That Ludwig had even bothered to stay with him as long as he had was a miracle. He had failed so miserably as a big brother. He had never been suited for that role, and even though he had loved Ludwig, even though he had been so jealous of outsiders that he had never even let Ludwig have friends, even though someone just _looking_ at Ludwig in a manner he did not like would result in him spending the night in jail, Gilbert had never really taken the time to just stop and spend time with him once he had gotten older.

Felt like Ludwig had turned into a stranger, towards the end.

Ludwig had just turned out so serious. So calm. So nice. So gentle. Sometimes, and he knew it was a horrible thought, but sometimes Gilbert had wished that Ludwig had turned out more like himself. Someone he could go out and have fun all night with. Someone like himself. He had always wanted Ludwig to be more like _him_.

But that wasn't Ludwig. Ludwig had never approved of Gilbert's outside activities, had never wanted to join in, and he was always _so_ worried. Ludwig had never wanted to spend all night partying, had never wanted to go into the city in the middle of the night, had never wanted to get drunk or high, and sometimes Gilbert had resented him for it.

They were brothers; why did Ludwig always have to act like a fuckin' father? Gilbert was the older one.

Ah, hell. It wasn't Ludwig's fault that he was a good guy. Gilbert should have been more responsible. He should have accepted Ludwig's serious nature instead of belittling it. He had caused Ludwig only distress and pain. He had failed him, in every possible way.

_What is your brother worth to you?_

Yet still...

_Anything!_

Ludwig had loved him unconditionally nonetheless. Ludwig had done more for _him_. Ludwig had taken care of him when he came home hung-over. Ludwig had been the one who had come down to the police station and waited with him until Erzsébet showed up and paid his bail. Ludwig had been the one who had cleaned up his cuts and bruises. Ludwig had been the one to hold his head above the toilet. Ludwig had been the one who had put ice on his knuckles after a night of brawling.

Ludwig had loved Gilbert, for no good reason.

And maybe Ludwig had turned out so serious, so worried, so pessimistic, and so _mature_ , because he had had to watch over Gilbert, even though it should have been the other way around.

Gilbert should have been the mature one, watching over Ludwig as he lived out his youthful years like other kids did, wild and reckless and carefree. Ludwig had been saddled with the role of a parent, a babysitter, a nurse, and a corrections officer all in one.

The worst part of it all was that he had never even realized that his carelessness was causing his little brother such quiet suffering. Shoulda known, should have been able to see, but hadn't cared enough to pay attention. Ludwig never complained about anything, and it was no small wonder that he had moved out only a few days after he had turned seventeen, after Roderich had procured him a small apartment. Who would have ever wanted to stay longer than that? Who would ever want to stay with Gilbert longer than they had to? And Gilbert had never even visited him except for Christmas because he had been so _hurt_ that Ludwig had left him at all.

He had blamed Roderich, then, for tearing them apart, but it had never been Roderich's fault. Ludwig had loved Roderich, too. Roderich would have made a great guardian. Gilbert had heard Erzsébet saying it to him sometimes, when they didn't know Gilbert was standing there around the corner.

'You'd've been a great father! I know you would have been.'

In those moments, Gilbert had hated them. He had hated that they thought they were better for Ludwig than he was.

They had been right all along.

Ludwig had deserved better, and, quite frankly, so had Roderich.

The day Gilbert had taken Ludwig home, Roderich had placed his hand atop Ludwig's head, ruffling his hair, looking so disheartened, and when Gilbert had walked out, he had heard Erzsébet say to Roderich, 'It's alright. Say, don't worry. You'll have a son of your own one day.'

Roderich had smiled then, a little, as he watched Ludwig leave, but it hadn't happened. There had never been a son for Roderich. Erzsébet couldn't have children. Ludwig had been it, for them. Gilbert had deprived them of caring for him. Their one opportunity. That's why Ludwig meant so much to them.

Gilbert ruined everyone, it seemed.

The snow continued to fall around him, then something stirred near his head, and he finally managed to open his eyes.

Something was staring at him.

Oh. Shit.

He started in fright, digging his fingers into the dead grass, but before he could pull himself up, he realized it was just a raccoon. Just a damn raccoon. His hammering heart slowed a bit as the animal stared him down. It sat before him on its haunches, wringing its little hands together, eyes shining from behind its black mask.

Gilbert relaxed and sighed in relief, and the furry animal approached him with minimal caution. Gilbert could only lay there, and didn't move so as not to scare it away. Couldn't say why. It came over to him, and began to scratch and dig into his coat. Looking for food, no doubt, and he let it try to pry open the buttons on his pocket only because he was _lonely_ , and he didn't have any food for it to steal.

A minute of poking and sniffing, and the raccoon came up before his head and sat back down. And, deliriously, Gilbert raised his head and looked at it, and said, lowly, "I don't have anything for you. Sorry."

As if he were understood.

And now he was holding conversations with wild animals; wonderful. Crazy as always. Just wanted someone to talk to.

The raccoon's hands were wringing again, and as it stared at him without fear, Gilbert steadily realized that it had been set loose in this forest deliberately. A wild raccoon would never have come up to someone like this, right? Part of that stupid introduction program, to be sure, and this animal was probably as lonely and out of place here as he was. Somewhere it didn't belong. Away from home. Alone.

Pressing his palms into the ground, Gilbert pushed himself off the ground, as the thorns scratched him and clung in his hair, and when he fell back onto his knees, the animal continued to stare at him, expectantly. Waiting.

And for a dumb moment, as he stared back at it, rubbing his chest as it ached, he had the stupid urge to grab the furball up and take it with him.

So lonely.

But when he finally managed to pull himself to his feet, he could only watch in disappointment as the raccoon turned and scurried off into the trees, its bushy tail bobbing behind it, and he was alone again.

Bowing his head, he braced his feet and sought out the courage to push onward.

Ludwig had deserved better back then, and would deserve better afterwards. He'd get it this time, though. When Ludwig was in Berlin, Gilbert would abandon him again, to Roderich and Erzsébet, and this time it would be for the best. Final. Gilbert would let Ludwig go, for the first time in his life, Ludwig would go to Vienna, and would never be in danger again. How it should have been all along.

Gilbert had never wanted Ludwig to leave him, but there wasn't a choice anymore.

Ludwig would become somebody, he just knew it, and Gilbert would watch from the newspapers and televisions as he did good in the world and helped people. Ludwig had always talked about helping people. Ludwig's great dream in life, ridiculous or not, had been to be like Roderich, and become an ambassador. Well, whatever Ludwig became, Gilbert was sure it would be something grand. Ludwig would matter in the world, even if he didn't know who he really was. Gilbert would just linger in the shadows, and watch from afar. Ludwig would live his life. Gilbert would waste his.

He took a shaky step, and was moving again, as fast as his sore legs would let him. He wasn't sure where he was anymore, and he hoped more than anything that he had not gone too far. There should have been a river somewhere, but he hadn't heard it yet. It was getting colder.

And then, mercifully, after an eternity, the undergrowth began to thin, and he came to a clearing.

Snow.

He came out of the forest, and leaned down, resting his good hand on his knee and catching his breath. Cold sweat dripped from his forehead. His chest hurt. He stood there, in moments of exhausted vulnerability, and finally looked up. Pale moonlight cast soft light over a field of snow. The blurry ring of white light that was the moon behind the clouds shone above, and he could see, up the hill, a house.

There were lights.

He changed direction and staggered up to it, and he didn't really know _why_ , because he did not have time to sleep, and he was too sick to eat, but he was afraid of the forest, and any short reprieve would surely be beneficial.

He crept up the hill, closer and closer, and stayed silent as he approached. The house was large, and there was smoke from the chimney. He came closer, and could hear people laughing from within. Boldly, he snuck up to a window, and poked his eyes around the edge. People in the living room, a family, watching television as a fireplace roared off to the side, and for a moment, he blinked, and he _swore_ that it was just him and Ludwig, and Roderich and Erzsébet, sitting there together like they had so many times in years past.

Ludwig's hair caught fire in the bright light.

He blinked again, and Ludwig was gone. Just people he didn't know and never would, and with a chill, he backed away from the window and crept off to the side. He passed around to the other end of the house, to another window, and when he looked through this one, he could see a dark, empty kitchen.

A refrigerator sat off to the side, its door covered with drawings held up with magnets.

A rush of adrenaline, and Gilbert reached out, grabbing the bottom of the window in his hands. He pushed up; it was not locked. He slid it up, quietly and carefully, and when it clicked in place, he leaned forward, grabbing the windowsill as best he could, and pulled himself up. He nearly fell face-first on the tile, but he caught himself at the last second and lowered himself down. Had his eye on the prize, so to speak, and went for it. He stepped silently forward and snatched a magnet from the refrigerator door. He tucked it in his pocket, and took another one, just in case, and then he crept back to the window and leapt out, closing the glass and exiting the house as swiftly as he had come.

All for a magnet.

Actually had a damn plan this time, if anyone could believe it.

The snow kept falling.

He trekked back down the hill, then he was back at the edge of the forest again, and it with a pang of regret that he pushed back into the trees. Fuckin' forest. This time, he went straight in. He walked, for what felt like hours but might have only been minutes, and then finally, he could hear the distant rush of a river.

Oh, thank god.

Relieved, he sped his pace, and when he finally broke through the trees again, this time there was the bank of a river before him. It cut through the middle of the forest, its flowing waters writhing this way and that as it roared along over the rocks. The outer waters were calm; the water in the middle was not.

The border was close. Now he had to cross the river.

On the bank, he hesitated, reluctant to dive into the freezing water, but the more he thought about it, the harder it would be.

He could barely see. Only a faint glimmer of moonlight on the top of the water.

He had to pass. There was no getting around it.

He was scared, but he rushed forward anyway, and as soon as the water hit him, first his legs, and then his abdomen, and then his chest, he froze up, in a moment of shock, because it was _so_ cold, and the strong current in the middle began to pull him along. A second of immobility. His lungs hurt. The water started to take him.

When his head fell below the freezing water, he came back to earth with a jolt and spread his arms, and forced himself forward. It was not that wide (some small luck) and he found the other bank after only a few minutes of struggling against the current.

Hauling himself up onto the mud, he threw himself down, wrapping his arms around himself as he began to shiver. It was not preferable, to be wet in such weather, but unavoidable. Felt a little like those times when he had dropped so much acid that he shivered hard enough to fall out of chairs. Clenching his teeth, he looked around at the forest, and knew that shortly down, there would be a barbed wire fence that separated the countries. He would cross there, in between the guard towers, and if he was lucky, he would pass unnoticed.

He took his soaking map, and set it open carefully upon the ground so as not to rip it.

Reaching into his pocket with trembling hands, he pulled out a magnet and the needle from his wallet, and struggled to hold the needle in his barely mobile left hand. Somehow, he managed to grip it, and with his other hand he took up the magnet and started rubbing them together.

Minutes of fumbling attempts, and finally, when it had been what he imagined was long enough, he put the needle in his teeth and tossed the magnet back in his pocket. Crawling forward on his knees, he searched the ground for a little dead leaf, and when he finally found one against the mud that looked good enough, he set the needle down inside of it. And now it was the end of the dead leaf that he clenched in his teeth, as he plunged his hands into the river and cupped water between them.

And now...

Gently, so as not to spill the needle, he lowered his head and set the leaf down in the still waters that he held in his palms, and watched.

He may have been an idiot, may have been a dope, may have been a drunk, but he knew _some_ things. But as to whether or not it would work? On the rocks. Some things you were taught just ended up being bullshit, and this coulda been one of them.

A moment of terrible nervousness, as his heart banged in his chest, and then the leaf began to twitch as the magnetized needle shifted and flitted towards the north. He turned his eyes down to the map, struggling to see it for the dark, and when he finally made out the direction in which he was heading, he shuddered in horror.

He had been going the wrong way. He had almost messed up. Oh, thank god that he had been paying attention in those stupid school classes years ago, because if he hadn't known how to make an improvised compass then he would have gone straight into Poland. He would never belittle school again, not ever.

Spilling the water from his hands, he put the needle back in his pocket and grabbed up the map, and it was with much more confidence that Gilbert walked along the river until he knew he was in the right place. As he went, he muttered to no one under his breath, "Let's see you do that, Roderich, you asshole."

As if.

He went back into the forest, and snuck down, and before long there was a short, small barbed wire fence. The first hurdle. He crossed between it easily, but that was just the first, and then there was another, and when he crossed it, he could see lights in the distance. A larger fence. A guard tower loomed above. Dogs were barking. A light passed above him, as he peered out from the trees, and then fled, and then passed above him again.

He waited until the light had just passed for the fourth time, and then, fighting away the lurching nausea in his stomach, he bolted forward, and prayed, prayed, that they would not notice him.

The first meters went smoothly; the snow slowed him down a bit, but that could not be helped, and he could see the fence, so close before him.

Someone shouted.

Shit.

And then the light was moving again, and he realized, with a dizzying lurch of terror, that they had _seen_ him, and now they were trying to put the light on him, and then they would shoot him—

The fence was right there.

He leapt forward and grabbed a hold of the rolled, tangled mass of barbed and razor wire, and he could only grit his teeth as he passed through it and cut himself, but he could not stop, and then he was in the middle, surrounded on all sides by twisting metal, and then he could see the other side, and then he felt his hands break through and grab only air.

His broken hand was in agony as he pushed it to work too hard, too fast.

A gunshot fell somewhere near him, and he froze for a dumb moment in horror, and then another shot fell so close that he could feel it move his hair, and then he broke through the wire.

He ran.

The trees were so close.

He leapt over another short fence, and then the other, and then the edge of the forest, and he could hear commotion behind him. The light fell upon him again. Gunshots at his feet, and he staggered out into the trees, clenching his hand to his chest as it ached like it was on fire, and then he could hear the barking of dogs, and oh, god, he could feel the cold sweat running down his face as he bolted in between the trunks and ducked beneath the branches.

Oh god, oh god, they were going to catch him—

The barking was closer.

He had never run so hard in his entire life. He swerved this way and that through the trees, and he was glad now, for the snow, because the barking was farther away, and he realized that the dogs were losing his trail in the white gloom.

He ran.

His heart was pounding so fiercely he was afraid it would explode. Then the trees were gone, and there was a field, and in the distance, there was a small, snow-covered town. He could see a train leaving a station, its billowing smoke rising up dark above the white clouds.

No more noise behind him. He had made it. He'd made it, he'd made it, couldn't even believe it, couldn't believe it. He could have plopped down and rolled around in the fuckin' snow for his happiness. He'd made it.

He turned back to the distant forest, spread his arms out victoriously, and called to the trees, "You guys can't shoot for shit!"

Fuck—

With a high chin and a throb of pain, Gilbert carried on, because he couldn't stop now. Leaving the guards and the fear behind, he rushed down the hill and into the streets, and when he located the train station after minutes of confusion for his incomprehension of Czech, he staggered up to the counter, and bought a ticket to Brno.

The town was still. Asleep.

Christ almighty, falling asleep himself had never been so easy, when he finally boarded the train, wet and cold and scared and exhausted, when the train lurched forward, he leaned his head against the window, and drifted off.

He was on his way. Ludwig only needed to wait. Just wait.

Hang on.

He'd promised forever, and by god, he would deliver.


	18. Hostility

**Chapter 18**

**Hostility**

He would have preferred Ivan.

It left a bitter aftertaste to admit it, but god help him, Ludwig would have preferred awaking in the first light of dawn to Ivan running his fingers through his hair and whispering to him.

Not _her_.

But that was how it happened nonetheless, when Ludwig stirred back into the realm of consciousness, his sleep feeling long and heavy and somehow exhausting. Someone's hands smoothed down his hair, and when he could finally find the strength to open his eyes, he shuddered.

He was laying on his side, a blanket halfway down his chest. The pale sun couldn't seem to break through the curtains. The room was dimly lit and the shadows in the corners were disconcerting. A heater blew warm, scorched air into his face. The fingers in his hair were not particularly comforting; one long, fervent stroke through, and then they clenched together and tugged, painfully, and then one long stroke through, and then another clench.

Ivan didn't touch him like that.

It took a moment for him to gather his strength. Finally, after minutes, he turned his head, and looked up. A woman was above him. Blonde hair. Blue eyes. Pretty face. Long hair. Dark dress. A terrifying air. Familiar. Her hands were smooth and cold.

Disconcerting.

She stared at him from where she sat on the edge of the bed, and he stared back dumbly, and felt a creep of panic. Couldn't remember much, couldn't recall the past hours, but he knew enough to know that he did _not_ want to be alone with her. Not with her. Couldn't say why, but he knew anywhere she was, was somewhere he didn't wanna be. Where was Ivan?

A silent alarm of danger in the back of mind. A bleary memory of a flash of steel.

_Where_ was Ivan?

A lurch of horror.

Inhaling in panic, Ludwig rolled from his side onto his back, and the simple movement made his head split open and his body ache. Felt like he was dying all over again, and Ludwig could only look around desperately for Ivan as she hovered above him.

She was smiling, as her hands continued to tug at his hair, quite contentedly. He wished he had the strength to yank her fingers out of his hair, but he couldn't even lift his damn arms. How had he been left alone with her? When she was more of a danger than the snow outside? How had this lapse in judgment occurred? Ivan had left him alone with _her_? How could he?

Ivan, for all of him, could be damn dumb sometimes.

She spoke then, for the first time.

"Finally woke up, did you? What a shame." She leaned farther down, long blonde hair falling all around him, and she was staring at him with obvious interest, her voice sweet and saccharine. "Oh well! It can't be helped, I guess."

He struggled to remember her name, but maybe that didn't matter at all because she was _dangerous_ and too close and her hands fuckin' hurt, and Ludwig dug his heels in the blankets as he tried to push himself backwards. He stopped short when he realized, with another lurch of unspeakable horror, that he could not move his feet. Couldn't even feel them. They were numb. Oh, god, could there be a worse time to be immobile?

He tried to move again, this time using his elbows, but she grabbed his collar with her other hand, crawling quickly on top of him in an attempt to keep him still. Knees on either side of his waist. One hand still clenching his damn hair and the other falling to his chest.

"Calm down. Stop moving. You'll hurt yourself. That would be such a shame."

Ludwig could only stare up a her with dumb terror, and she stared right back at him, and after a moment of silence she spoke again, her smile ever widening as she looked him over.

"Remember anything?"

He didn't answer.

Her fingers left his abused hair and fell down to his neck.

"Your pulse is stronger. ...that can't be helped, either. Hey, can you talk? Don't you remember anything? Well, even if you don't, I'm still glad you showed up. That was the first time I've gotten to see Ivan in years. Guess I should thank you, but honestly I wish you woulda died instead. Oh, well. Seeing him was enough, I guess."

Now her hands came up to cup his face, thumbs running over his cheeks, her weight feeling far too heavy above his aching chest, and Ludwig was slowly recalling the past hours as his brain came back to life, and shivered beneath her.

"He never comes just to visit me."

Natalia.

"He's too proud."

Her name was Natalia.

"Oh, Ivan. Men are so strange. I don't understand them at all."

And she was rambling.

Her random, disjointed speech was as unnerving as her eyes, as her hands, and Ludwig wished that she would have just left him alone. What she said next, though, irritated him, for whatever reason.

"Isn't that a shame? That a wife should only see her husband every few years."

Wife?

Temples aching and dizzy with nervousness, he met her eyes and said, voice low and weak, "You're not his wife."

He didn't know _why_ he said it. Why provoke her? He didn't know why he said it, and why he felt so agitated. But she was not Ivan's wife. Facts were facts, after all.

A quiet hesitation. Her brow came down.

"Ah. You _do_ remember."

Not everything. Most of his memories of her were bleary and out of his reach, but he knew enough to matter, the feel of steel and the look of danger, and damn, how could Ivan have left him alone with her? Ivan, who always kept him close and promised that he would protect him from the dangers of this land. Maybe he was dreaming, still asleep, because this certainly felt like a nightmare.

"Feel alright? Can I get you anything, colonel? Would you like some coffee? Vodka? Tea?"

She smiled in a leering way that might have implied that coffee would include small talk, a friendly hug, cream, sugar, and some poison on the side. Yikes.

He found his voice, and rasped, "No, thank you."

"Well," she said, still sitting quite happily atop him, "At least you're polite."

Was that a good thing? Sure hoped so. Didn't want her trying to fuckin' stab him again because he hadn't uttered a basic courtesy.

They stared at each other, and she fell back, sitting her weight now upon his knees, and he looked over towards the door, helplessly. She followed his gaze, and, perhaps sensing his nervousness, scoffed aloud.

"Don't worry. I didn't kill him or anything. He'll be back. He's fetching hot water." She looked over her shoulder, down at his numb feet, and reached back with one hand, grabbing his foot playfully.

He couldn't feel her hand, and that was pretty damn terrifying. Fucking feet were still so numb, even hours later.

"I would have just let you catch gangrene," she said, as she turned back to him, "But Ivan would seem to prefer that you can walk. Among other things. I'm upset with you, you know. I didn't think you'd pull out of that. I was hoping you'd just go to sleep and slip away before morning. Well, a woman can dream."

Sick with adrenaline and hating the fear in his chest, he tried to smile at her, and managed to mutter, breathlessly, "Sorry to disappoint. I won't try so hard next time."

His voice was so rough and low by now he was surprised she could hear him at all.

"I'm afraid there won't be a next time," she said, primly, as she mercifully slid off of him and pulled herself up to her feet, "Ivan never makes the same mistakes twice."

There was a short, stiff silence in which she stared down at him impassively, and then a voice from the doorway said, coolly, "I don't make _mistakes_."

Ludwig's head snapped to the doorway, and he had _never_ been so relieved to see Ivan, as Natalia's bristles lowered in his presence. Not ever. Oh, what a relief. Hadn't ever thought he'd think those words, but there it was. Ivan was back, and Ludwig was damn glad for it.

Ivan stood in the frame, and in his hands he held a pot of steaming water, and he was staring Natalia down with an exceedingly intimidating glare that Ludwig was thankful had never been used on _him_.

Ivan uttered a simple, hissing command.

"Out."

She seemed unfazed by Ivan's silent threats, by his commands, by his aggression, but started leaving all the same, because she felt like it. As she took her leave, she walked smoothly and surely, and when she passed, she reached out and brushed her fingers down Ivan's cheek, doing so only because his hands were otherwise occupied, crooning softly in Russian.

Ludwig watched, in utter fascination, at that interaction. Just the way Ivan acted.

Had never seen Ivan anything less than composed, even in anger, but she seemed to make him uneasy. Ivan narrowed his eyes at her, spitting words under his breath, but she didn't flinch. Ludwig couldn't stop watching. Ivan jerked back from her touch as though burned when her fingers fell to his neck in a caress, sloshing water onto the floor as he continued to berate her, and now Ludwig bristled too, at her audacity. At her fearlessness. At her _presumptuousness_.

...she was not Ivan's wife. Crazy. What the hell was the matter with that woman?

Maybe he was just upset with himself, that a woman had the gall to be so unafraid of Ivan and Ludwig did not.

Then she popped up on her toes and kissed Ivan upon his cheek. Ivan pulled back from her, furiously, the look upon his face absolutely terrifying as he hissed at her with nothing less than rage. No doubt he would have slapped her if his hands hadn't been occupied, but then, that was why she had done it. She just smiled, and then she was gone. Ivan watched her go, still and silent and shifting restlessly, and when she was out of sight, he turned his head towards Ludwig and took a step forward.

He met Ludwig's eyes, something within him seemed to shift, and then Ivan smiled, his withering glare gone as swiftly as it had come. Maybe as happy to see Ludwig as Ludwig was to see him.

"Awake? Good. How are you feeling?"

Ludwig didn't respond, still watching the doorframe, just to make sure that she was _really_ gone. Hell, he was afraid of her. It hurt a little to admit, but was undeniable.

Scared.

Ivan looked at him, then back at the door, and then he snorted, and said, as he came forward to the bed and set the pot on the floor, "Hey, don't worry about her. She knows better than to hurt you. She's crazy, but she's not stupid. Don't worry! No one touches you while I'm around."

Ivan's words were sure and comforting, but they didn't hide the fact that Ludwig had just seen, with his own eyes, that shiver of _something_ that ran through Ivan whenever Natalia was near, and he suspected that Ivan was just as afraid of her as he was.

A strange thing they could share.

"Can you move?"

Digging his elbows into the blankets, Ludwig pushed himself up as best he could, ignoring the dizziness in his head, and Ivan seemed pleased at his efforts.

"You're doing much better! I was worried, for a moment. I'm glad you're okay. I hate seeing you like that."

Ludwig shrugged a shoulder, not knowing what to say, and then Ivan knelt down onto the floor, hovering above the pot of water. The rising steam gave away its heat.

"Here," Ivan coaxed, and held out his hands, "Give me your feet. Can you feel them?"

Nope.

Ludwig shook his head, and it was with a furrowed brow of concentration that he somehow swung his legs as best he could over towards the edge. The muscles in his thighs were sore, but he forced them to move nonetheless, and when he had flung them over far enough, Ivan shoved the blanket off and grabbed his ankles, rolling up the hems of his pants. Ludwig looked straight ahead at the wall, ignoring the flush on his cheeks as Ivan poked over his feet, eyes calm and attentive, and then set them down in the steaming water. How humiliating.

A sudden burst of agonizing pain stopped that humiliation short, alright, and he heard himself gasp aloud. A jerk, as he tried to pull away.

The water stung above his ankles, where he could feel, and it was almost too hot to bear. But Ivan's hands wouldn't let him move, and Ivan looked up at him intently although Ludwig refused to meet his eyes.

Ah, Christ!

Hurt.

"Hey, don't worry. They are numb, now, but they'll start waking up in a little bit. Once the nerves warm up. It will hurt though, for a few hours. But, hey," Ivan added, and ghosted warm fingers up to his knee, "That won't be a problem for you, will it?"

Ludwig looked down, despite himself, and the heat on his face was becoming unbearable as Ivan's fingers crept upward, and their eyes met. The pain seemed less important now that Ivan's big fingers were suddenly creeping. Figured.

Ivan was still smiling.

God, did he always have to _touch_? Couldn't he just sit there? Always touching.

A silence, and Ludwig was relieved when Ivan's hand stopped halfway between his knee and his hip. Whew.

And then things got a little strange, when Ivan said, in a murmur, "See what you made me do? Oh, your poor feet. Hey, I was really worried, you know! I thought I was going to lose you there for a minute. I didn't mean to get so angry with you, but you made me do it. It was not so right of you, to run out on me like that. But it's alright! I forgive you, so you shouldn't be angry with me, either. Let's just put it behind us, yeah? Don't be mad at me, because I'm not mad at you."

Mindlessly, stupidly, Ludwig said, automatically and without thinking, "I'm not angry."

He wasn't angry anymore, it was true, but he had not necessarily wanted Ivan to know that. He had lost some kind of edge, however small it may have been, by letting Ivan know that there was no animosity to overcome. He was far too tired to be angry. Just too damn tired. Being angry took too much effort. Too much thought and strength that he didn't have. Wouldn't run again, so being angry all of the time was going to be impossible.

Anyway, he'd survived the walk, so the whole incident was over.

Something else hit him, though.

...Ivan _forgave_ him? What, then, the whole thing had been _his_ fault? _He_ had been the one who had been in the wrong? By trying to escape a wintry prison? If so, then Ivan's hypothermic punishment had been justified, maybe, because Ludwig had tried to back out of a deal.

A deal.

Contracts couldn't be broken. Well. Maybe he _had_ been in the wrong. He had made a deal, and he had tried to break it by running. He had been in the wrong.

That little alarm in the back of his mind was suddenly screaming at him that hell no it wasn't _his_ fault, that he had done _nothing_ which needed forgiving, nothing at all, that Ivan was to blame for everything, that Ivan was the only one between them that was a murderer.

Yeah, maybe, but he was _so_ tired, so tired, so exhausted, so defeated, and so far, no permanent harm had come upon him. So far. Just like with anger, thinking too much was also too tiring.

Damn, how his head _hurt_.

But it wasn't his fault, and somewhere in his head he knew it, because that intense survival instinct he had felt last night wouldn't have just come up out of nowhere. Wouldn't have felt like that if it were _his_ fault. Not his fault. So he wasn't really sure why he needed to repeat it so many times. Why he had to actually think about it and convince himself.

His feet were starting to sting.

Ivan always spoke so surely, with no quiver of doubt. So confident and precise. Ludwig had never been like that, hadn't known himself at all, could never have trusted himself, and Ivan's self-assurance made him doubt his own mind.

Damn. He was confused. The night had taken a toll on him. He couldn't think.

"You don't look so well," Ivan suddenly murmured from below, and Ludwig could only shake his head, avoiding Ivan's eyes.

Maybe his mind was still cloudy from his second brush with death. He felt horrible. Awful. Lethargic. Nauseous.

"Can you move your toes yet?"

He looked down, dumbly, at his red feet below the water, and narrowed his eyes as he focused to clench his toes. They bent, slowly and awkwardly, and now the stinging was becoming a sharp throbbing, and he clenched his jaw at the pain.

Ivan watched, as he struggled to regain control of his digits, and then patted his knee.

"That's good! Keep moving them. Tell me if something hurts, okay, because maybe there's a blood clot somewhere. See, I knew it would be easy for you!"

Ludwig furrowed his brow, and continued to flex his toes against the pain, if only because it was better than thinking about things that only ended up confusing him in the end, and because Ivan was urging him on.

"I knew you were a soldier, after all."

...ah, maybe it wasn't so bad.

"You're very brave." Ivan's hand was warm and heavy upon his leg. "This is nothing for you, huh?" Fingertips massaging his skin, and Ivan's constant croons of admiration and words of endearment were starting to slowly wear him down. "You can do anything, can't you? You remind me of myself!"

And not necessarily in a bad way.

Hadn't ever had anyone always spurring him on with endless compliments, so that wasn't so bad. Being told that he reminded Ivan of himself should have been absolutely horrifying, because that was no one he ever wanted to be, but somehow in this particular situation the words sat well with him.

Ivan pulled himself up onto the bed, sitting next to Ludwig and pressing their sides together, and then suddenly Ivan's hand was up and running through his messy hair with gentleness. Not like her's had.

"Look at you. You're always so handsome, even half dead. Funny. You must have had lots of friends. I don't think I've ever seen anyone as good-looking as you. I sure was lucky to run into you! So handsome. There aren't so many people here, so I can't promise you a lot of friends, but you can have plenty of soldiers below you."

He'd never had friends, except for Alfred. Let Ivan think he had been popular. The words were nice. Nice to be paid attention to.

Gilbert had never stayed home.

"I wish that there were flowers around here, so that I could maybe find you some. You'll like here in spring. When the snow is gone, there are flowers everywhere. It's pretty. We Russians love flowers. But I'll find something for you, for Christmas. It's so soon. What would you like? Mm?" Ivan's voice was smooth and amicable, shoulders loose and relaxed, like they really _were_ just old friends exchanging Christmas lists, "Huh? You can tell me! I'd get you anything you wanted. Well? Everyone likes getting things for Christmas. I can get you anything."

Ivan was just blabbering now, saying whatever came into his mind to keep Ludwig engaged, to keep his mind off the pain in his feet, and maybe Ludwig was a little grateful for that. So surreal, sitting side by side with a Soviet general, dressed up like a colonel, one jostling the other like a teenager and chattering away like birds. When Ivan wasn't angry, when Ivan was in a good mood, his voice was so _pretty_ , like those flowers he spoke of. Had never seen such a rough, frightening, huge, masculine man with such a pretty voice.

A sudden, dumb image in Ludwig's head of Ivan in full uniform showing up with flowers.

Ha.

A gentle nudge in his side, Ivan was all smiles, and Ludwig felt a twitch on the corner of his lips, a strange sensation that he had not felt for years now, and for a peculiar, exhilarating moment, he started to smile. He hadn't smiled, not really, in so long. Only Alfred had ever made him truly smile and laugh. No one else. He hadn't heard mindless praise in years, either. Christmas had been forgotten for a long time. Flowers. Had never gotten flowers, that was for sure. Who would have ever even thought of that?

Ivan.

Ludwig suppressed his half-formed smile harshly and efficiently when Ivan looked up and arched a brow, and he was mortified at himself. The hell was wrong with him? He was out in space.

But it was too little, too late, because Ivan had seen, and now he was leaning in, eagerly.

"You should smile more! I would have you smile, just once."

Ludwig bowed his head, and even though he would have liked to ask, petulantly, 'What is there to smile about?' he didn't, because he would rather not antagonize Ivan when he was in a good mood.

At his silence, Ivan seemed hardly deterred, and was actually rather determined.

"Well, then. I'll make you smile. My new mission. Don't worry, I know you got scared last night, but things will be better once we get back home. I'll take you on a trip somewhere, if you'd like. Where would you like to go? Huh?"

Ludwig opened his mouth, and nearly said, 'Berlin, please!', but Ivan was watching him so intently that he lost his nerve, and finally managed to mutter, "I don't care."

Ivan's smile never fell, bolstered on by Ludwig's passivity. Just felt so resigned all of a sudden. Didn't even feel like fighting Ivan off anymore.

A hand on the back of his arm.

"Do you like traveling? I do. I love going places, but sometimes I can't go very far because the military doesn't allow it. Some countries won't even allow me in, just because of my rank, isn't that terrible? I had a wonderful trip planned once, across the United States and then down to Mexico, but it was canceled, you see, because hostilities—is that word right?—were so high. I had wanted to go somewhere warm. But I can only go where the Soviet Union says I can."

For a moment, his eyes darkened, and his hand on Ludwig's arm tightened, painfully, but it passed quickly and Ivan was cheery again.

Shadows.

"Well, no matter, I think I'll go down to Argentina soon. Would you like to go there? I tell you what, once we get back home, I'll let you choose! I have a big map in my office. Anywhere you want to go, assuming it's possible, of course. Well? What do you say? Would you like that?"

Argentina with Ivan? Well. Probably wouldn't say no. Getting out of the Soviet Union was still an urge, an impulse, if only now a dream. Would have taken anything at all. Ludwig had turned his head to stare at Ivan, had been so entranced by him that he had stopped flexing his toes, and Ivan noticed.

His airy voice became a bit droll, a little low, and he leaned in far too close to Ludwig's face, eyes drilling into Ludwig's own, and said, "The faster your feet work, the faster I can get the hell out of this house."

Say no more!

Ludwig immediately took his feet up out of the water, rolled his ankles around, and tried to stand up, because if Ivan wanted out then Ludwig was positively itching. He succeeded in standing, however wobbly, and Ivan's hand was looped in his belt for balance.

Another damn smile, but this one of relief.

"Good job! Come on, let's go."

Ludwig sat back on the bed, pulling on his socks and boots with shaking hands, Ivan threw his coat over Ludwig and helped him bundle up, tied his own ushanka over Ludwig's head, and when Ivan led Ludwig out of the room, Natalia was waiting in the living room, hands clasped politely in front of her.

She was blocking the front door.

"Leaving so soon?" she asked, sweetly, and Ivan only stood before her, waiting irritably for her to move so they could pass.

But she stood there.

"Why don't you stay?" Her eyes passed over each of them, hair neat and pretty, hands so still. "I could use some company."

Ludwig felt himself leaning in towards Ivan subconsciously, because of that latent terror.

She smiled at Ivan, and then her eyes fell on Ludwig in a moment of intensity, and he could feel the hairs on his arms raising up in fright as she stared him down. He shuddered, and found himself rather petrified in place.

"Have a safe trip," she finally whispered, voice soft and low, and for a terrible moment, Ludwig found himself frozen under her terrifying eyes. Because they were swirling again, and they were _promising_ him that this was not the last time they would meet, nor the last time she would hold his fate in her hands, nor the last time that she would strive to take Ivan for her own, nor the last time that she would try to take his _life_ —

Ivan reached down, and took his hand within his own, and gripped.

The spell was broken.

She stepped aside. They passed. Ivan opened the door, and was pulling him through.

"Colonel, if you ever get bored with Mirny, you can come back down here and visit me sometime, okay?" she suddenly said from behind, her sugary voice laden with a dangerous edge, and as Ludwig looked over his shoulder at her he was _glad_ that Ivan was gripping his hand. She winked at him, her smile bright, and Ludwig's terror was unrivaled.

Ivan slammed the door shut so hard behind them that it rattled in its frame, and seemed quite relieved to be back outside in the freezing air.

A heavy exhale, Ludwig duly noted his new Siberia drill of crackling sinuses and lengthening lashes, and then Ivan carried on.

Ludwig would never have guessed that he and Ivan would share a mutual fear, and he would have guessed even less that, for their respectable heights and builds and virility, their mutual fear would be of a rather small _woman_. Shameful, maybe, but goddamn. She was fear incarnate.

Ivan's hand was still firm around his own, but that was alright for now, and it was only his fear of Natalia that led Ludwig to grip Ivan's hand in return. He wanted to _go_. Now. Wanted away from her.

Ivan's smile was showing his teeth again, those canines poking out, a wolf sensing weakness, no doubt, but Ludwig would take the wolf over the viper any day.

Ludwig looked around, expecting to see Toris waiting in the car, but there was no one in the street. Ivan saw his eyes searching this way and that, and said, as he began to tug Ludwig along, "It's so close, we'll just walk. It will be good for you, to walk. It will wake your feet up more."

The cold said otherwise, but Ivan's furiously fast pace kept Ludwig from fretting too much.

The morning's pale light shone over the white town, gleaming on the roofs and making the snow glitter. The sky was clouded, and a mist hung above. As they walked, side by side, he realized how cold his head was despite the hat, and he looked up at Ivan, whose pale hair gleamed as white as the snow in the light.

How did he do it?

Didn't know why he thought of it, or why he said it, but Ludwig heard himself whisper, lowly, "Sorry. I lost your hat."

Ivan looked down at him calmly, and only smiled. "Don't worry about it. I've got another one. A prettier one."

Sorry. Why had he said sorry?

Ivan's eyes flitted over his face as they walked, and suddenly Ivan said, "Your eyes are so pretty like that."

Everyone's were, as far as Ludwig was concerned, when their eyelashes were thick and icy and fluttering like huge white butterflies. Ivan's were, although Toris' eyes seemed to hold first place up in Ludwig's head. He took the compliment all the same, silently, and turned his eyes to his feet.

He stared at the sidewalk, concentrating on where he put his boots, and when he finally looked back up minutes later, he realized the great hotel was before him, towering against the skyline.

The black cars shined in the courtyard.

The courtyard, that had seemed like such salvation only several hours earlier. The night had gone so horribly wrong. No matter where he was now, no matter how it all had happened, he sure was glad it was over with. But the thought of seeing _those_ people again, after what had been done, after that night...

He didn't want to go back there, and started slowing down, but Ivan was quick to assure, "We're just going to get the car, and I must thank everyone for coming. Then we'll go. I promise."

Ludwig's pulse raced as they approached ever closer, and when he could see the Soviet military looming here and there, bidding each other farewell and trading off the last of their cigars and vodka, he felt a flush of embarrassment on his cheeks, and tugged his hand out of Ivan's quickly. Christ, he didn't want them to see that. He'd die of mortification. Didn't know them, but sure as hell didn't want them to see him holding hands with another man like a schoolgirl.

Ivan stared down at him, for a moment, but then snorted, and waved a hand in the air. "You embarrass so easily! Look, how red your cheeks are. I don't know why. There's nothing to worry about. Well. Oh, well. That's alright, you look pretty when you blush."

Mortified, Ludwig slowed his pace until he was walking behind Ivan, rather than at his side.

They stopped before a car, inside of which Ludwig could see Toris before the steering wheel, drumming his fingers irritably. Ivan opened the back door and took out a white ushanka, pulling it down on his head as he smoothed out his uniform, straightening everything until he was a model of neatness. Then he pulled out a coat and threw it on, and Ludwig wondered why he had preened his uniform so much if he was only going to cover up. Must have been pride.

When Ivan was finished, he went to the men, and even though Ludwig longed to join Toris inside the warm car, he did not dare get in when Ivan expected him not to.

Ivan had not said, 'Sit down'.

So he didn't.

Stood there outside, looking stupid. Toris was probably rolling his eyes again. Didn't know why he did that, either. Why he stood there.

Ivan looked back at him, suddenly, and waved a hand. Ludwig knew what he wanted, and heaved a sigh as he trudged onward behind Ivan.

Didn't know why Ivan was tormenting him, either.

Maybe this was just another one of _those_ moments, because surely it wasn't _necessary_ for Ivan to return and tell them all goodbye? Did he _really_ have to shake all of their hands, as Ludwig trailed behind him like a dog, brow furrowed and cheeks red and eyes firmly on the pavement, wobbling this way and that as his numb toes came slowly back to life? Was it necessary for Ivan to direct everyone over towards _him_ , so that they could shake his hand, too?

It wasn't a necessity. It was a bonus. Ivan just liked seeing him squirm.

Despite it all, it wasn't as bad as the first time.

At least this time he didn't have to deal with their knowing leers, and most of them were too hung-over to even raise their eyes in the pale sunlight, and with Ivan's huge coat thrown over his shoulders, he at least felt less exposed. Loose, weak handshakes, mumbled farewells in various languages as they winced and paled, and Ludwig could only hope that they all threw up on their leather seats the whole way home.

Ivan walked tall and straight ahead, and it occurred to Ludwig (with another pang of nausea) that no one even seemed to remember that, only the night before, Ivan had snuck up into a hotel room that was not his and had pulled out a gun. Or maybe they admired him all the more for it. Maybe this had happened before.

God.

The crowd was thinning.

...was her body still up there?

He shuddered.

Minutes passed, and finally, mercifully, there was no one else standing before them, and Ivan turned back to him with a smile, shoulders high and chest puffed and looking quite satisfied. "They all asked about you, you know," he began, proudly, and Ludwig could only look up at him, struggling to keep his balance, "They're curious about you."

Curious about _what_? About how much his fuckin' hand hurt after beating the hell out of their comrade?

Turning on his heel, hands clasped behind his back, Ivan started off towards the car, where Toris, the lucky son of a bitch, was waiting, and Ludwig trailed dumbly behind, pulling Ivan's coat around himself and avoiding raising his eyes up to the hotel windows.

Did Ivan tip the staff extra to bleach blood out of the carpet? Did he have a well out in the forest somewhere? Did he have people who he bought in the government, who erased papers and birth certificates clean away? Jesus, did normal people ever _ask_ themselves these kinds of questions?

The car was in sight. He could see the exhaust floating up in the freezing air.

Ivan's boots clicked on the frozen pavement.

He panted to catch his breath, the effort of walking for so long proving a bit much for his stressed body. Ivan's white ushanka gleamed in the light. A beacon. Ludwig followed, although he was tired of walking. The sky was white, too. Everything was still. Snow drifted down from the bare trees. The horizon was misty. Silence. This frozen place was quiet in the early morning. Ice crystals hung everywhere. The air was cold and clean.

His nose was numb.

And then, quite out of nowhere, someone started _screaming_.

Panic.

He and Ivan looked over at the same time, and Ludwig's heart jolted with adrenaline and horror and something else that he could not quite put his finger on, because there, standing at the edge of the courtyard, eyes bloodshot and voice thick and absolutely hysterical, was the officer whose wife Ivan had murdered. Two men stood on either side of him, grabbing handfuls of his coat as he pointed at Ivan and shrieked, and even though Ludwig couldn't understand him, he got the message loud and clear.

Murderer. Assassin. _Traitor_.

Dizzy with that awful horror, that shame, Ludwig looked over at Ivan, and some part of him expected Ivan to shoot the man right then and there, too, because surely no one insulted Ivan in front of everyone and got away with it.

No one moved. The officer kept on screaming, kept on lunging, and seemed upset, more than anything, that no one was helping him, that no one was taking his side, that the other soldiers weren't rushing up to Ivan to place him under arrest. No one moved, and somehow Ludwig felt awful for it.

Ivan only acknowledged the officer suddenly with a curt nod of his head, a crooked smile on his face, and carried on, completely unfazed. Absolutely unruffled. Not bothered. Ivan turned his back, and went to the car.

Ludwig stood still, taken aback as the officer wrenched free of the men restraining him and took two wide steps after Ivan, and for an absurd, ridiculous moment, Ludwig had opened his mouth to tell Ivan to be _careful_. He stopped short before the words left, and he was horrified at himself. Why would he do such a thing? If the officer were to attack Ivan, shoot him, maybe, then that would be all the better for Ludwig. Until the officer shot _him_ , too, anyway.

If Ivan were to suddenly die, his contract would be broken. The deal would shatter.

Ludwig clamped his jaw, furrowed his brow, and only watched.

And yet...

Even as the officer took another step, shaking terribly and not from the cold, Ludwig _remembered_ him. He remembered being goaded and hissed at. He remembered being insulted. Affronted. Offended. He remembered the burn of vodka in his eyes, the degradation of being spat before. And even though the man was on the verge of tears, bruised and bloody and beaten, even though his wedding ring caught the light in a mocking reminder that he was now a widower, and even though Ivan had stolen his entire life from him, Ludwig couldn't really help the strange aggression that suddenly squirmed into his chest.

He hated Ivan.

But he hated that man more.

He hated himself, too, for _thinking_ it, but no amount of denial would change the fact that he _wanted_ Ivan to shoot the officer, for the way he had spoken to Ludwig the night before. Shoulda been enough, losing his wife like that, but now Ludwig wanted him to be on the end of the gun, too.

God. What was happening to him? He had never thought such terrible things before this. Never. Had never wanted anyone to be hurt.

He was so frustrated. Stifled. Confused. Felt very much as though he was suffocating, no matter how much air there was. He couldn't handle this stress, this overwhelming change of environment, this situation, and he would have given anything just to be able to go back in time and get a hold of the Valium again. Why had he not brought that last bottle with him? He had left it behind.

The aggression was surely just a side effect of stress. Wasn't it? Stress did horrible things to a mind. He knew that well.

The officer's coat was stained with blood, far more than Ludwig had managed to draw; no doubt that he had cradled his dead wife to his chest when he had gone up to their room and found her there on the floor. Shit—that image hurt.

What was done was done. Nothing could change it.

A sudden movement caught his attention; the officer had stopped screaming, silent danger, and after a moment of hesitation his hand flew down to the gun in its holster. A flash of steel in the hidden sun, and Ludwig felt himself freeze up, hands clenched at his sides. The other soldiers shifted, moved, but didn't come forward.

Something within Ludwig that he couldn't place.

Ivan didn't see the gun, back turned.

_You can depend on me._

Ivan. That son of a bitch.

_I'd do anything for you._

Ivan, who claimed to be responsible and to always take care of things. He'd only ever wanted someone who kept their promises. Someone who did what they said they would so. Someone he could rely on. So far, Ivan had done everything he said he would. Ivan had come looking for him for hours in the vast forests of Brno. Ivan had saved his life the night before with quick thinking. Ivan had kept Natalia at bay. And Ivan had made sure that the officer's actions had consequences.

He was so tired of being the responsible one, the one to take care of others, the one who had to be seen as the 'stick in the mud', the one who had to be so mature far too soon, the one who never smiled. The stern, boring one.

Gilbert had made him that way.

Tired of being thrust into situations where he had had to be the adult before he had even been able to shave. So many years of recklessness. So many years of stress. Broken promises and fights. Being let down. He was tired of giving so much and getting nothing. He just wanted someone who would look out for him, like he looked out for everyone else. Not such a grand thing. That was all he wanted.

Ivan had come back for him.

A gleam.

The officer's finger raised up to the hammer to pull it back, and before he knew what he was doing Ludwig had come back to earth, braced his feet, and shouted, "Watch out!"

It came out before he could stop it.

Ivan froze in his tracks, too, at his cry, but Ludwig doubted that it was in fear. Then he turned, slowly and deliberately, meeting the officer's eyes with a nerve-wracking tranquility. Didn't the bastard ever get scared? Wasn't there anything other than that woman that could move Ivan? The officer stopped dead where he was, his finger freezing right above the trigger of the gun, and there was a terrible silence. Ivan was smiling, as always. Looked like he had just been invited to dinner. Ivan was utterly unshakeable.

And maybe, just maybe, Ivan was something close to a god out here.

That awful silence.

Ivan lifted up his chin, eyes locked on and having yet to blink, and then he lifted his arms ever so slightly out at his sides in invitation. Daring the officer. Waiting, so patiently.

Ludwig had never in his life been as entranced by anything as he was Ivan in that moment, as he stared at death so fearlessly and taunted it. Had never known there could be a man like that. Seemed otherworldly in a way.

The officer fell still, then; his shoulders slumped, his shaking hands lowered, the gun dropped, and he hung his head, his bravery washed away under the tide of Ivan's eyes. He fell to his knees on the frozen pavement soon after, clenched his fists, and pressed his forehead into the ground. He began to cry. The moisture froze there on his eyes, as it always did, and this time Ludwig didn't find it fascinating or beautiful.

Ivan observed him for a moment, thoughtfully, and then lowered his arms and turned around, and he walked on as though nothing had happened. After a second of speechless amazement, Ludwig found his feet and could only follow behind, brushing past the officer as he went.

No one else spoke, and seemed hardly hassled.

When he reached the car, Ivan waiting patiently for him, Ludwig looked back over his shoulder at the sobbing, broken man behind, gun clenched in his hand and whispering to no one as he bowed there on the ground. Others came up to him. Someone hauled him to his feet.

And what scared Ludwig the most in that instant was that he felt _nothing_. No pity. No remorse. Because the officer had brought it upon himself. His head hurt. It wasn't _his_ fault; he had not asked Ivan to do what he had done. He hadn't wanted that, no, and it wasn't his fault. Ivan had said so, hadn't he? It wasn't his fault.

Ivan held open the door, and as he climbed in, Ludwig's head began to throb more than ever. Ivan climbed in next to him, tapped Toris on the shoulder, and then they were moving.

And not a minute too soon, because being here, in this situation, in this environment, was bringing out terrible things within him that he had never even known were there in the first place. Had those things been within him all along? Hidden, somewhere? Had never felt them until he had met Ivan.

Ivan reached down, and clenched his hand.

Because never before would he have thought that someone deserved _that_. Not that. No pity? No remorse? Who was he?

_You're Ludwig!_

He wasn't so sure anymore. There was no one here to remind him who he was.

Erzsébet wasn't here to tell him to treat others as he himself would like to be treated. Alfred wasn't here to tell him that the only thing to fear was fear itself. Roderich wasn't here to tell him that pride came before the fall. And Gilbert wasn't here to tell him that life was too short to spend it hating and getting even.

Ivan did not live by those rules. Maybe he wouldn't, either, not anymore. Then again, neither had _they_ , Ludwig quickly reminded himself with a pang of what could have been bitterness. Because, for all of their talk and lectures...

Erzsébet did not always treat everyone quite like how _she_ would like to be, and Alfred got frightened too, and Roderich was as proud as anyone he had ever known, and Gilbert had told him that just because _he_ had spend his whole life in hectic whirlwinds of revenge.

They were all hypocrites.

He had gripped Ivan's hand without realizing it.

Why couldn't he be one, too?

How many times had Erzsébet lost her temper with the embassy secretaries? How many times had Alfred backed out of mischievous adventures because he was terrified of German police? How many photographs had Roderich posed for? And how many nights had Gilbert spent in jail, battered and bloodied? Would they begrudge him one arrogant Soviet fool? Ivan wouldn't, obviously, and suddenly he had leaned in, breath warm upon his neck.

"Hey." Ludwig looked up, startled, and Ivan was far too close for comfort, smiling serenely. "Were you worried? What, you thought he would shoot me?"

Ludwig felt a horrible flush of red upon his cheeks, and regretted immediately that he had ever cried out to Ivan in the first place. Now Ivan would think...

"You were worried about me. See? We're getting along so well!"

This was the _last_ thing he wanted. Fuck. Why couldn't he ever keep his fuckin' mouth shut?

Ivan's smile was wide and content, chin high and chest puffed out in self-satisfaction.

Ludwig turned his head to the window, and watched the snowy trees creep by, and Ivan was creeping too, closer and closer.

He was starting to _hate_ car rides.

Ivan fell still once he was firmly against Ludwig's side, taking no further unwanted action, and Ludwig could only breathe a sigh of relief and rest his chin in his palm. Their hands were still intertwined between them. Somehow, he didn't really think to pull away. His feet were throbbing painfully, more uncomfortable than Ivan's heavy weight, and when Ludwig looked up again, and realized it had started to snow.

Hours passed. Boredom. Toris drove slowly. Carefully.

He tried to rid the memory of that hotel from his mind. He couldn't. Couldn't stop thinking. So many things running through his head. And something else.

A thought, or maybe a memory.

And then, restless and anxious, Ludwig turned his eyes to the front and opened his mouth. Even though he knew he shouldn't have.

"Your father went crazy," he suddenly whispered, mindlessly, and he did not know _why_ he said it, because he could not think straight off where he had heard it, or if he even had.

What an idiot he was.

For a moment, there was a terrible, suffocating silence, worse than the one that had made him open his mouth in the first place, in which Toris sent him a look of absolute horror in the rear view mirror. Then Ivan's eyes snapped up and he pulled his hand out of Ludwig's and reached out, grabbing up his collar and pulling him in so close that he could feel Ivan's breath moving his hair.

"Who told you that?" he asked, in a dangerous hiss, and Ludwig, caught under his stormy gaze, could only shake his head, helplessly.

Why, oh _why_ had he opened his mouth?

"Who _told_ you that?" Ivan asked again, and shook him gently, adding, "Did _she_? She did, didn't she?"

She? Natalia.

Then he could hear her wrathful shriek in his ears, as clear as a bell, and his brain lit up.

"Yeah," he finally said, as Ivan throttled him again, "She told me. She told me all about you two."

Toris' grip on the steering wheel tightened.

Ivan only stared at him for a moment, eyes churning, and then he scoffed and released Ludwig's collar, leaning back into the seat. Crossing his arms above his chest, he stared ahead with a furrowed brow and pursed lips, and then finally he said, voice low, "Didn't you know? I'm her favorite thing to talk about. She tells everyone she can about _that_."

"I noticed," Ludwig managed, weakly, rubbing absently at his collar.

A short silence.

"Did she tell you that I called off the wedding?"

He nodded.

"And she told you about her father?"

He nodded.

Ivan scratched the back of his neck, irritably, and then said, "Her father was a great man. He did much for me. But she was too much. After he died, there was no point in staying with her. I owed _him_ , not her."

Toris gripped the wheel so tightly that the leather creaked beneath his glove.

Ivan seemed suddenly foul, as he grumbled, "Don't... Well. If you think badly of me, don't. I promise, she was crazy _long_ before I broke our promise. I told her all along that I didn't love her. She knew. She was always crazy. I didn't make her that way. She knew I hated her. She just didn't care."

Well, he certainly believed that.

Ivan said nothing more, ducked his head down, and stared ahead, eyes narrow and dark. Why was he angry? Was he worried that Ludwig was going to think him less a man, calling off an engagement with a woman who had helped him? That he would think Ivan less a gentleman, refusing to pay what he owed?

Ludwig sat still for a moment, heart racing and knowing full-well that he had just skated over very thin ice, and then he wondered, briefly, why Ivan had not just gone through with the marriage. After all, didn't crazy attract crazy? Ivan, having the nerve to call someone else crazy. Another hypocrite.

Ludwig wondered, too, why Ivan had evaded successfully the mention of his father. Well! Ludwig was dumb, but not so dumb as to pursue the matter a second time, and fell still.

Ivan's good mood was withering. His smile was gone. Toris tapped his fingers anxiously on the wheel as he drove.

...why couldn't he keep his mouth shut?

Turning back to the trees, he tried yet again to take his mind off of things, and it didn't take long before he realized that it was impossible. Because, in its own way, the ride back to Mirny was even _worse_ than the journey out of it had been. At least the last time, he had had some kind of resilience to hold on to, the faintest of hope that maybe, maybe, he would still have a chance to get out of this somehow.

But now as he sat here, watching the trees, there was no hope. Only quiet resignation. He would have to accept that Berlin was no longer his home. His home was Mirny. His home was Siberia. His home was Russia. His home was with Ivan. Not with Gilbert.

Because he had made a deal. He was bound to it. Ivan had broken his deal with Natalia, but Ludwig wouldn't break his, because he still had something to lose on the other side of the wall.

Everything was silent. Ivan was still brooding.

Hours later, halfway down the road, Ludwig reached into his waistline, and groped around for the knife that he had taken from Natalia in their delirious struggle. Ivan had not discovered it, which was a surprising miracle, for all the groping he had done, but...

Why bother keeping it? Ivan stared down a gun with no fear. A knife would have just made him laugh.

He found the handle and pulled it out, and it was with a pang of defeat that Ludwig looked over and caught Ivan's gaze, reaching out and placing the knife on Ivan's lap, snipping, "Here."

Ivan looked down at it, and when he looked back up, he was smiling again, and the air about him was much lighter.

"How'd you sneak that by me?" Ivan asked, curiously, as he grabbed the knife and tucked it away in his coat. Ludwig was caught under his intense eyes, feeling stupid for whatever reason.

"I wasn't trying to," he finally muttered, irritably, "I forgot about it."

Ivan's smile widened, and he reached out, tossing an arm over Ludwig's shoulders amicably, his good mood back with full force. Ivan's mood swings were alarming. Unpredictable. Made terrifying Ivan so much more dangerous.

Suddenly, absurdly, randomly, completely out of nowhere, Ivan leaned in and whispered right in his ear, "Say, can I put my arm here?"

Ludwig scoffed, as the hairs on the back of his neck stood up.

"It's already there."

"So it is."

Ivan fell silent, and pulled Ludwig firmly into his side, and Ludwig could only bow his head and furrow his brow, feeling absolutely ridiculous as Ivan pressed their heads together. He raised his eyes, and when he could see them in the rearview mirror, his shame intensified. Hadn't yet come to terms in his own head with someone like Ivan, hyper-masculine and domineering and confident, being attracted to him. It hadn't clicked somehow, seemed absurd and frightening, wrong.

Maybe it was the lack of control he had over the situation that made it so terrifying, because he couldn't really say for sure where he even stood in his own inclinations. Didn't know who he was or what he wanted.

His headache was back. His toes were still stinging.

Ivan forced him in closer until he had no choice but to rest his head on Ivan's broad shoulder, a heavy forearm across his chest.

He and Gilbert had lain like this before, and so had he and Erzsébet. Roderich had slung an arm around his shoulders and let him sleep on his chest when he was younger and they were all alone. Alfred had sometimes looped an arm within his own when they sat together drunk on the couch. Maybe everyone did this, at some point or another. So maybe it wasn't so bad, to sit like this with Ivan.

Ludwig nearly burst into laughter, because Natalia would _kill_ , literally, to be like this with Ivan, and yet _he_ was so nervous that he was afraid he would get sick. Strange. Well, one man's trash, etc.

Ivan held him so tightly that his sore chest ached.

The road was long and slow, and sometimes Toris would look up and catch his eye in the mirror, and the worry there barely broke through the fog. Toris sighed then, tiredly, but quickly fell still. Ludwig wondered, as Ivan's head began to bob up and down as he started to fall asleep, how Ivan had ever plucked up Toris in the first place. He would ask. One of these days.

Exhausted and drained, he leaned against Ivan, and fell asleep. It wasn't so bad.

But damn.

It was getting harder and harder to hear Gilbert's voice against the static.


	19. Chasing Memories

**Chapter 19**

**Chasing Memories**

It wouldn't stop bleeding.

As the first rays of dawn broke over the horizon and cut through the white clouds as the train chugged along, Gilbert could only clutch his arm to his chest, keeping it wrapped up firmly in his coat, and the deep gash from the razor wire that he had swum through just wouldn't stop bleeding.

The sleeve of his coat was soaked through with blood, and the dark red was visible even against the black-grey of the fabric. Thank god that the train car was empty, save for himself and one old woman asleep in the very back, because otherwise he would have attracted unwanted attention, dirty and mangled as he was. The blood was dripping down onto his pant leg. No matter how hard he pressed, it just wouldn't stop.

Dripping.

But he couldn't stop, either, and when the train lurched to a halt in the heart of Brno, Gilbert darted out as quick as he could, passing into the streets and trying to be as inconspicuous as possible. For a moment, he only found himself walking around in circles, not knowing what else to do.

The snow had stopped falling. The streets were glittering like diamonds in the rising sun.

Felt so lost.

Where did he go? What clues was he supposed to find here? How could he possibly find out where the Russian had whisked Ludwig off to? Christ, where did he even start? Just grab people on the street and shout, ' _Ivan Braginsky_!' over and over again until he found someone who would point him in the right direction? What if ran into the wrong people? Someone like _that_ had to have spies all over the place, and he was still in the middle of the Eastern Bloc, where no one could be trusted.

He ambled the streets aimlessly, holding his arm as tightly as he could, and he looked this way and that as he went, hoping against hope that he would just find _something_. Just run into something. Anything. Something to guide him.

Roderich had set him down in the middle of a maze.

The stores and buildings were just waking up, and the frosted glass made the lights from within shine out bleary and pale. He was dizzy, and sore, and mercilessly tired, but he still he walked on, and people passed him as he staggered forward, sending him looks of alarm and fright. He must have looked ghastly. It didn't matter.

Usually found himself looking that way, through one circumstance or another.

His head was starting to spin against the exhaustion and hunger, it was starting to become difficult to breathe, his heart was racing with the effort of just walking, and then he looked over to the left, and saw behind a panel of glass a huge shelf of old books.

A library.

That was as good a place to start as any, lost as he was.

He lurched across the street and pushed through the door, and even though the woman at the counter looked up and froze when she saw his disheveled appearance, he didn't pause to acknowledge her. Anyway, if he stood still for too long he was gonna fall over. Already bleeding all over everything.

He passed shelves and shelves of colorful books, the air around him warm and musty and comforting, and he went around corner after corner, and when he finally found what he sought, he slowed his pace, and sighed. A quiet, darkened corner, solitary and uninhabited, and upon its many shelves were enormous bindings, countless years of newspaper articles and town records wrapped up in neat succession. The light was low and yellow, and off to the side sat a great, clunky copying machine. A desk, and chairs. Tables.

He searched through the shelves, looking through the years, but there were so _many_.

Ah, hell. Fuckin' hated reading.

Gilbert reached up, snatching the bindings down as quickly as he could, reluctant to take pressure off of his bleeding arm for too long, and it was with great effort that he hauled them over and sat them on the table.

He took whatever years would seem relevant. The Russian was his age probably, a little older, and he took down '59, '60, '61, anything he could find, until '65, and he tossed them all down on the table. By the time he had them all, the table was buried, each binding at least six inches thick, and as he sat down before them, he was momentarily overwhelmed.

There were just so many pages. So much information. So much to sift through, and he didn't even really know what he was looking for, but he leaned forward and flipped open the first book nonetheless. The newspaper articles of years passed flew before his eyes, and he scanned every photo, every headline. Page after page. The minutes ticked by. The paper was musty and warm.

Hours.

'59 went by, slowly, without incident. Nothing. He started on the next, and now his eyelids were getting heavy. The cushioned chair was comfortable beneath him. Blood loss was making him woozy.

Time passed. The sun was rising ever higher outside. The black and white photos started blurring together. The heater above was warm. The letters were blurring too.

'60 passed, and nothing.

What time was it?

Lethargically, he reached out and grabbed up the next book, and by now the edge of his vision was black, and he had made it only halfway through the massive tome when he was overwhelmed with the desire to rest his eyes. Just for a moment. He was hardly even looking at the pages as he turned them. Blurry.

He was exhausted.

The musty book beneath him, he flipped another page, mindlessly, and the warm air of the library was dragging him down. His head slipped, lower and lower, and finally his nose was touching the cool paper beneath, and he nodded off.

Space. Everything got colder.

_Don't! Go home!_

His head was starting to throb. The air was thin. He thought he felt something dripping down from above. Something always felt so wrong, even though he couldn't put his finger on it. Ludwig wasn't here. Nothing was like it should be. Everything was wrong.

A cold steel all around. A snap.

Something was wrong with Ludwig.

_Welcome to hell._

Wrenching awake so hard that he nearly knocked his chair backwards when he bolted upright, Gilbert looked around in a horrible panic, adrenaline lurching through his veins as his heart raced in his chest, and oh _god_ , he could _swear_ that someone had been whispering in his ear. Could swear it.

A hand in his hair.

But as he looked this way and that, shuddering, there was no one standing beside him, and when he looked down, there were no shackles on the chair. He fell back, a cold sweat on his brow, and raised his hands above his eyes, wearily. He realized his hands were trembling. He scratched his head, feeling those fingers yet in his hair, and when he pulled his hand back there were specks of dried blood under his fingernails.

Felt so overwhelmed. Terrified. He couldn't handle this. It was all too much. He was not cut out for this, not stuff like this. Not daring acts. Brave rescues like this should have only been attempted by brave people, like Ludwig. People who were good enough to risk themselves for others.

He wasn't.

Exhaling to gather himself, he lowered his hands, and turned his eyes back to the book before him. He couldn't sleep.

The page came into focus.

And when he saw the photo, really saw it, he felt another cold lurch of dread. A shock. He squinted his eyes to be sure.

Well. Damn. There he was.

_Him_.

A black and white newspaper article from '61, the year the wall had been conceived, and _he_ was standing there, tall and smiling, hands behind his back, encircled by other Soviet military as they stood before the great clock tower in Prague. It was _him_.

Gilbert ripped the huge book up, earning a renewed flow of blood from his arm, and hauled it over to the copying machine and set it down, and as the bright blue light shined from beneath, he could feel a change in his fortune. He just couldn't tell if it was good or not. He made as many copies as he could afford, just in case, and on each of them, he took out a black marker and made a circle around the Russian's face. By god, he would find that son of a bitch. One way or another. Wouldn't let him go, not ever, not with Ludwig. He'd raze down all the USSR to find that man.

Tucking the papers away in his coat, Gilbert left the warmth of the library, and stepped back out into the city. Now...

Didn't know how to start.

Everything was bustling now, as the late afternoon sun hung over the horizon.

How would he possibly find someone who knew that guy? He would need dumb luck, and maybe more money. He would just have to revert to his original plan of stopping people at random.

Taking out a copy of the photo from his coat, letting his arm rest as the blood finally started to coagulate and slow, he stopped everyone that he could, and shoved the paper in their faces, pointing to the Russian and shouting, loudly, "Hey, do you know this man?" even though he was sure that hardly any of them understood him.

Most of them broke away from him, sending him wide-eyed looks of alarm, as though he were crazy—and rightfully so, because he was—and some of them studied the photo, thoughtfully, helpfully, and then shook their heads.

He pushed on.

He fell quiet whenever he passed a police officer, and stood straight and still, and when he was out of their sight, he would start right back up again. It was foolhardy. Stupid. But what else could he do? He kept asking, and sometimes he would grab someone, and when they looked at the photo, something shifted and darkened in their eyes, and he just _knew_ that they recognized him, but then they would just pull away and shake their heads, and walk off briskly.

God, god. Would no one help him? Wouldn't anyone be brave? Ludwig had come for him. Couldn't someone talk?

Then, finally, he grabbed the shawl of an old woman, and when she turned to hit him with her purse, he shoved the paper in her face, and pointed. His eyes were as desperate as his face, maybe, because she furrowed her brow, stopped whacking him, and then looked down. She humored him because he must have looked close to tears, and adjusted her glasses upon her nose.

A moment of silence.

And then she snapped her fingers and looked up at him, waving her hand in the air as she said, voice quaking and warm, " _Ano...Dobrá tedy._ " She reached out her wrinkled hand, and pointed in the direction from whence he had came. " _Tam! Vlakové nádrazí_."

Gilbert didn't understand, didn't know what the hell she was pointing to, but he reached out and grabbed her hands and clenched them, crying, eagerly, "Thank you!"

So grateful for something. So grateful.

He walked down, farther and farther, and the trains were looming in the distance again, and he kept asking everyone he saw. Some of them knew, and they all said, " _Vlakové nádrazí!_ " But he didn't know what that meant, and it was frustrating, because they all said it, over and over and over again, but what was did it _mean_?

As he stood in the middle of the train station, agitated and annoyed and feeling helpless, he paced back and forth, staring at the pavement. He bumped into someone, accidentally, and when he looked up to tell them to move it along, a huge sign above caught his eye. In big, bold letters, it said _Vlakové nádrazí._ He looked around, dumbly.

Trains. The station was bustling.

And then it hit him like lightning, and he realized that it meant 'train station'. They had been telling him all along to go back to the train station. Now he felt something like hope, because he was in the right place. There was something here that he needed to find. Someone here _knew_.

He looked around, and a payphone caught his eye. His wallet felt so light, too light, and if he got a clue here then there was possibly a long journey ahead of him. He had to be prepared. Needed more money.

Slinking over to the phone, he picked it up, and dropped in coins and punched the numbers, pressing his palm against his left ear to shield it from the roar of the trains around him. It rang. He waited.

Then a stiff, bored voice drawled, " _Hello_?"

Gilbert paused for a moment, shuffling his feet awkwardly as he bowed his head, and then he gathered his strength and muttered, "Hey, Roderich. It's me."

A silence, and then Roderich's voice came alive and he hissed, fervently, " _Gilbert_? _What took you so long? I thought you had died off in the woods somewhere_!"

He furrowed his brow and grumbled, "I almost did."

Roderich didn't seem overly concerned for his well-being, however, and asked, eagerly, " _So! So? Well? Where are you? Did you find him yet? Do you have him? Oh, Christ, please tell me you_ have _him. Don't you have him?"_

Ludwig.

Roderich just wanted Ludwig. Didn't care if Gilbert died in the process.

Now came the part he was dreading, and he could feel the hammering of his heart as he tried to delay the inevitable. It would happen eventually, though. Roderich had to know.

"I'm here," he began weakly, voice low and deep as he tried to hide his shame, "In...in Brno."

The volcano exploded immediately, as he had expected.

" _IN_ _BRNO_?" came the shriek from the other end, and he pulled the phone away as Roderich's voice pierced his ear, " _In_ Brno _? It's been two and half_ weeks _! Why the_ hell _are you still in_ Brno _? How long have you been there_?"

Roderich's shrieks were painful in his ears. Gilbert couldn't really blame him for his anger.

"I just... I just got here earlier."

" _Earlier_? _Where the_ fuck _have you been? Jesus Christ, Gilbert! What do you think this is? This is not a vacation! You could have cruised up to_ Moscow _by now, Gilbert! Ludwig is out there and you've been sitting on your ass for over two_ weeks _? Have you even found out where he went? Have you even looked? What the hell have you been_ doing _? See? You see? I knew this would happen! I_ knew _it! I should have just gone MYSELF_!"

Shame.

Gilbert bowed his head silently, and when finally Roderich calmed down (no doubt because he could hear Erzsébet chastising him in the background) he lowered his voice and grumbled, in a strained tone, " _Listen, Gilbert, just find him. I don't care what you have to do_."

Well. That was as good an invitation as any, and Gilbert blurted, quickly, "Roderich, I need more money!"

For a second, Roderich sputtered, " _More mon_ —" and then he fell still, and Gilbert could practically hear his teeth grinding as he gasped, " _How much_?"

"Maybe... Maybe another couple thousand. At least."

A strangled sound.

"I think I'm really close to someone that knows where they went. There's someone here in the train station. I'm about to start asking around."

" _Do you have a pen_?"

"Yeah."

" _I'll wire it to you_ ," came the grumbled reply, and as Gilbert scribbled away, he could only pray that he didn't let Roderich down, in the end.

Like he always let Ludwig down.

" _When you get there, call me. I'll need at least an hour_."

"Alright."

" _Don't fuck it up, Gilbert_."

And even though he knew he was wearing Roderich's thin patience, he just had to bring it up. Had to, because he needed more help. Needed more guidance. He wasn't smart enough for all of this, wasn't resourceful enough. Wasn't like Ludwig and Roderich, brilliant and cunning, he couldn't do all of this without help.

"Roderich, I'm—I'm having trouble getting across the borders. Tunnels are so hard to find, and I can't climb fences so good right now, it takes me so long to get across—"

Roderich didn't give a shit about Gilbert's comfort, about how much it hurt to climb, but Roderich _did_ give a shit about Ludwig, and was quick to say, " _I'll take care of it. I'll call in some favors. Let me know where you need to go. See, this is why I make sure I stay on everyone's_ good side _, Gilbert. You should try it sometime_!"

Gilbert fell silent, bending underneath unspeakable weariness and Roderich's fury, and he could only grumble, "Thanks," as he meant to hang up.

Roderich stopped him.

" _Gilbert_?"

"Yeah?"

A moment of hesitation, and Roderich hissed, voice barely a whisper, " _I want you to call me every time you stop. I've had this job for a long time, and I'm way past the point of diplomatic formality. I'll get you wherever you need to go, no matter how many ethics I have to stomp on along the way, and, god help me, if you need to_ shoot _someone, Gilbert, don't even stop and think about whether or not you_ should _. Just get in, get Ludwig, get out, and I'll do what I can to make it disappear later_."

Gilbert fell still, and for a moment, he almost smiled. That was probably the most endearing thing Roderich would ever say for the rest of his life. The first time Roderich had ever wanted to break any rules.

"Thanks," he finally said, again, and set the phone down.

As the trains whistled and chugged around him, as the people passed by, as the sun rose higher and brighter, Gilbert somehow felt that he had passed a point of no return. He sensed something terrible on the horizon.

But it was too late for him now.

Straightening his shoulders, he furrowed his brow and set off, and the tellers around him were numerous. Guards stood in every corner. No matter what happened, he was getting Ludwig. No matter what he had to do along the way.

So, who was it here that he needed to find?

He waited until the crowds thinned, and then he slunk up to the first ticket counter, and pulled out the paper. And even though the first man was unhelpful, the second was a little more useful, and only pointed discreetly down the row. Agitated and nervous, Gilbert fell down to the next, who shook her head. He moved on, and there was another shake of a head, and then below another point, and then, finally, he had reached the very last booth.

Well, then, this had to be it.

Stalking up to the counter, feeling confident that he had cornered his prey, Gilbert slammed the paper on the counter and barked, "Hey! You!"

The teller looked up, brow low in annoyance. Yeah, if he worked in this shithole he'd be annoyed all the time, too.

"You know this man?" Gilbert asked, petulantly, and the teller's eyes fell down, and there was a horrible moment of silence, and his heart was pounding in his ears.

And then the man averted his eyes and inspected his nails, saying quickly, in pretty good German, "Nope! Can't help you. Sorry."

Bullshit.

"Are you sure?" he ground out, and Gilbert could tell just by the shifty eyes and cool attitude that he was being played. "Don't you wanna look again?"

"Not really."

"I really, _really_ need to find this man," he continued, and now his voice was a muffled hiss as he spoke through gritted teeth, and he had _never_ been patient. Never had been. Was gonna snap soon, he could feel it. Not in the mood for any of this.

"Listen, man, I told you, I can't help you."

Gilbert's fingers contracted so hard that he accidentally crumpled the paper within them.

Anger. Fury. Underneath, inescapable terror.

"No! _You_ listen," he hissed, his patience waning, and the pane dividing them was the only thing that kept Gilbert from throttling the man, "I've asked _everybody_ , and everybody is sending me to _you_! I've been out here for weeks! I've been looking forever. Now, are you gonna tell me or not?"

A silence, and the man's brow was low and stern, and he shook his head.

"Don't fuck around! I know you know him, now _tell_ me! Please!"

The man looked around, anxiously, and now he stared down at Gilbert with something that looked like disbelief. "I'm doing you a _favor_ ," he finally said, placing his palms on the counter, and there was something dark in his voice as he added, "No one goes _looking_ for Braginsky. Most people spend their entire lives trying to avoid him."

"Well," Gilbert muttered, " _I'm_ looking for him, and I'm gonna find him, and if you don't help me, then you're gonna regret it! We have unfinished business."

The man stared up at him, unfazed, and only shook his head. Looking at Gilbert like he was a whacko.

"You're crazy! Just let it go, whatever it was. And don't threaten me, either. You're nothing. I came here from Poland. I've seen what Braginsky can do."

The guy looked around then, and lowered his voice into a whisper, a hiss, trying very hard to get rid of Gilbert without causing a scene. Gilbert had to lean in to hear him through the pane.

"Listen here, there was this little town, next to mine, that sheltered a student group. They did all kinds of stupid things, sabotage and staging rebellions and whatnot, and when Braginsky was finally brought in to take them down, do you know what he did? He didn't even bother knocking on doors and looking for them. He rode through with his men and their tanks and he burned the entire town to the ground. All the women and kids, too. I could see the smoke from my house! I could _smell_ it. I left the next week. You're an idiot if you go after him. Everyone died. Ran that whole town over."

_Run!_

A sudden smell of gunpowder, and Gilbert remembered the searing heat and black smoke of the grenade he had thrown, and for a terrible second, he could only imagine that little blaze magnified tenfold, engulfing an entire village, and the whole while the Russian stood up on top of a tank in front of a blood-red sunset, hand shielding his eyes from the bright light of the fire as embers and ash floated around him, pale hair and eyes glowing orange in the inferno, watching with a calm smile and loose stance from behind a veil of shimmering, scorching air as people screamed and ran and _burned_ —

Gilbert shuddered, and for a moment, his resolve foundered, and he fell back, horrified and so scared he could barely breathe.

No one ever went looking for _him_.

Except Ludwig. Maybe Ludwig hadn't intended to seek him out, not intentionally, but it had happened, and he had offered himself up willingly, even though he had sensed too, perhaps, what kind of terror lay in wait.

Let the towns burn, then, as long as Ludwig stood safe on the sidelines.

How could he convince this man to speak?

Well. When all else failed...

"Just tell me what you know," Gilbert said, as he dug for his wallet, "I'll pay. Just tell me what direction he went."

He tried to keep the desperation from his voice, but it wasn't working, and the man crossed his arms above his chest defiantly, but his shifty eyes made Gilbert press on.

"You're way in over your head. I'd send you to your death, man."

"What do you care? You don't know _me_. Look, times are hard, you need the money. A hundred," he offered, and the man scoffed.

"Marks? For Braginsky? You'll have to do better than _that_."

"No," Gilbert snipped, pulling out his wallet, "I mean American!" He pulled the bill out, and added, eagerly, "Let's let Mr., _ah_..." He looked down at the paper, "Mr. Franklin do the talking!"

A short silence.

Eh. ...it was smoother coming from Alfred's mouth. Sounded kinda stupid from him.

The man paused and looked around nonetheless, and then lifted a brow.

"American, eh? That's better."

Relieved, Gilbert set the bill upon the counter, but kept his fist firmly upon it, muttering, "Talk!"

A hesitation, and then the man sighed in defeat. "Look, I'm only doing this because I need the money. I don't know exactly what happened. All I know is, the train was coming in from Prague and, for some reason, it got stopped down in the middle of the line. We were about to send out assistance, because we thought it had derailed, but then it started up again later that night. When it arrived, the conductor looked like something had scared the holy hell out of him—Braginsky probably put a damn gun to his head to make him stop—and the train was supposed to go to Budapest, but the conductor came up, looking kinda crazy, sayin' that no, no, no, they weren't going to Budapest anymore, he had to go to..."

The guy paused, and appeared to be struggling, and Gilbert leaned forward, hanging.

"Where? Where?"

"...a straight line, to Moscow. No stops. No one else was allowed to board that train. And I don't wanna know why, either. And that's all I know. Moscow was the last I heard."

And then the man reached out and snatched the bill out from under Gilbert's fist, and Gilbert could only stand there for a stunned moment, head spinning.

Oh, god. He had not expected Moscow. He had not expected to have to set foot in Russia. Maybe Hungary, Serbia, or Bulgaria, but not _Russia_. Not there. He had hoped he would have intercepted them before they went that far. He didn't want to go _there_.

Well. No choice.

Swirling around on his heel, Gilbert meant to walk off and find the bank that Roderich was using, because suddenly he needed a _lot_ more money—

"Hey," came a cry behind him.

He paused, looking over his shoulder in irritation.

"What?"

"Hey, do _me_ a favor, now. When he finds you—he'll find you before you find him—don't ever tell him I helped you. I got two little girls at home. I'd like to see them grow up."

Ice down his back, and yet Gilbert lifted his chin defiantly, and said, "Don't you mean 'if' he finds me?"

"No," was the immediate response, "I mean when."

Gilbert only frowned, a rush of adrenaline in his veins at the seriousness on the man's face. But he nodded nonetheless, tucking his wallet back into his pocket, and turned on his heel, walking off.

And a warning followed him :

"You won't ever come back."

He shuddered. Still, he walked forward. He would not stop. He couldn't.

The day was young.

Didn't care about other people.

Just Ludwig.


	20. Conflicting View

**Chapter 20**

**Conflicting View**

It was overwhelming.

His first thought.

Ludwig had never cared to see the house from the outside before. Didn't want to know what it looked like, because it had been a prison.

It was unavoidable this time, as the car left the street and paused at a huge gate, and as Toris left the car to stick a key in the lock on the gate and pull it open, Ludwig could only stare at the long drive ahead, as low-hanging trees stood behind the gate and around the path. Bare with the cold. Toris leapt back in, and drove through, and then leapt out again, to close it and lock it.

Didn't see the point of the damn gate, since it didn't even seem to go all the way around the property. Just for show, probably, because Ivan seemed like that kind of man.

They were driving again, and as the long path finally rounded a corner, he could see the house, for the first time. He found himself leaning forward against the front seat, his face down next to Toris', as he looked up through the windshield towards the sky.

Toris glanced at him, and gave a snort as Ludwig gawked up at the house.

It stood tall, not as tall as the great hotel, but still intimidating in its presence, three stories. White-washed rock, white shingles on the roof, odd, arched windows that held frosted glass, columns, and all around there were short trees, no taller than the second level of the house, bare branches swaying in the wind. The roof was arched in the center, and upon the top stood two great chimneys, and one rounded portion that looked almost some kind of royal tower from one of those stories that Gilbert used to tell him when he was a child. Dead hedges on either side of the path, and he realized just how high the steps to the door were, and he could have crouched and walked underneath the bottom of the house quite comfortably had there not been smoothed concrete around it. The colors outside were as pale and bland as the colors inside, and everything was white and cold and fragile.

It was overwhelming. A castle of ice.

So alone. There were no other houses even in sight. Only snow-covered pines, a frozen river gleamed far out in the distance, and it struck him that this was really the definition of Siberia; a frozen wilderness, vast and inescapable, wild and dangerous.

But how strange, because he had yet to see another house like this anywhere so far in the Eastern Bloc. Every building in the Soviet Union was concrete, functional and ugly, and the houses here in Siberia were made of wood. This looked so Western, fantastical and very stylized, and Ludwig didn't know why it was here or how. Not Soviet, for sure.

He wondered, momentarily, how Ivan had ever found this spot to begin with. How he had ever known it existed, this town.

As it turned out, he didn't even have to ask, because Ivan, seeing him staring upwards as they finally exited the vehicle, seemed more than happy to elaborate.

"Do you like it? It's pretty, isn't it?" Ivan took his hand, and tugged him up towards the stairs, and he could only gawk up at the skyline. "It was designed for a millionaire from Athens. A diamond trader that liked to play politics, too, you see, and he built this all the way out here so that he would have control over all the diamonds that came out of here. Wanted to buy the whole town. He was an acquaintance of mine, actually, back when I lived in Moscow. He was a fun man, but he never really did seem to understand how communism really works." Ivan then turned coy eyes to him, and his voice was low and husky as he added, "Coincidentally, he died the same year that I decided to move out here, too. After he left me the house in his will. Another happy coincidence."

Coincidence.

Ludwig shivered and nearly scoffed, because Ivan's sly voice indicated that there was no such thing as a coincidence where _he_ was concerned, and the warm thrill that ran through Ludwig's veins reminded him of Ivan's quiet danger. It was wrong, but it was somewhat exhilarating to know that Ivan was so perilous to _everyone_ —but not to him. He was immune to Ivan's treacherous 'coincidences'. Ivan had promised him, hadn't he? That he would never hurt him.

He was immune. Ivan had done nothing so far but save Ludwig's ass from disaster.

That was a little empowering.

...did _Ivan_ understand how communism worked? Ludwig was fairly certain that that 'will' would have been crushed and everything given to the state, because everyone was supposed to be equal, after all. Ivan had declared a love for capitalism, and although that should have gotten him shot, Ivan was able to turn it around and get what he wanted. Money did truly run the world, in the end, and men like Ivan wouldn't stand to be 'equal'. Communists could be bought off, too.

The walked up to the house, to escape the wintry hell, and Ivan lidded his eyes and glanced at Ludwig, looking him up and down.

"He never had a chance to furnish it, and I'm not a very good decorator. I never have anyone over. I'm embarrassed. It's so empty. I can have Toris drive you down to Yakutsk one of these days, and you can find things that look nice. They have many shops there. You probably know more about that kind of stuff than I do."

Why in god's name would _he_ know about decorating? Was Ivan trying to tell him, in not so many words, that he was intending to turn Ludwig into his sort of housewife? He had a few qualms about that. ...just would never say so.

They scaled the steps, Ivan's words running through his ears like white noise, and then he was inside, where it wasn't so unbearably cold. Home, he could say perhaps. He was home. They stood there for a moment, as Ivan stared blankly ahead with a furrowed brow, as though wondering what kind of new adventure he could drag Ludwig off onto.

Who could know what went on Ivan's mind? Ludwig certainly didn't.

Ivan only tilted his head after a minute, and said, "It's still early. Irina is probably making lunch."

Immediately, Ludwig said, maybe too eagerly, "I'll help her," because it seemed like a good idea, and he needed a break from Ivan's intense air.

A thoughtful silence, and Ivan finally nodded his head, and placed his chin in his palm.

"...alright. That's fine. I've got work to do now, anyway. Just stay with Toris."

Sure. Whatever. Toris always ended up ditching him, but whatever. Great.

With that, Ivan was gone, and Ludwig breathed a heavy sigh of relief. The first merciful moment of relaxation.

Or not.

Footsteps behind him, and when he looked over his shoulder, Toris was suddenly walking up to him, looking absolutely exhausted. Toris waited until Ivan's footsteps were no longer audible in the tiled hall, and then he looked over at Ludwig, and for a moment, when he twitched, Ludwig thought that he was going to reach up and hug him.

He slapped the back of Ludwig's head instead, and not gently.

"You're a fuckin' idiot!"

Wincing and rubbing his head to smooth his hair, Ludwig could only send Toris an irritated glare, and bark, " _What_?"

Toris reached up with his good hand and grabbed a fistful of his shirt, and shook him, angrily, hissing, "I can't believe you! What were you thinking? You're so lucky—ah, you're so _lucky_ , you stupid jerk! How could you even think to say that to him? Don't you know what could have happened? Do you see my arm or what? Huh? You would have had it a lot worse if you'd been alone with him, and if he hadn't come out of it! Are you stupid?" One last shake, and Toris summed up with a final, incredulous, "What were you _thinking_? Stupid."

Ludwig knew what Toris was referring to, and he had seen that horrible look in Ivan's eyes when he had blurted out so idiotically what he had heard about Ivan's father.

But still.

Pulling away from Toris' fist, Ludwig glowered down and spat back, as he shoved at Toris' chest, "I _wasn't_ thinking! If you didn't notice, I nearly _died_ last night! Did you forget that, or what? _You're_ the _jerk_! All you had to do was _get out of bed and drive_! I barely made it out of there, no thanks to _you_!" He shoved Toris again, and Toris pulled back his hand and slapped Ludwig across the face.

Ah—hadn't missed _that_.

They glared at each other, irritably, silent and brooding, but it was Toris, for the first time, who broke and suddenly lowered his eyes. His shoulders slumped, his combative air turned into one of moroseness, and for a moment, just a moment, Ludwig regretted shouting at him. Because Toris was just...

Looking more defeated than Ludwig had ever seen him, Toris finally muttered, "Sorry I let you go alone."

Reaching up and scratching at his collar, Ludwig finally relented too, and managed, lowly, "Yeah. So am I."

An awkward silence, as they averted their eyes and shifted their weight, and then Toris finally sighed, and said, "Come on."

Ludwig followed behind, and with every step his annoyance faded.

...Toris was just like him. Somewhere he shouldn't be. Overpowered and overwhelmed. Hopeless. Toris just had a better handle on it than he did. It was easy to forget sometimes that Toris wasn't from around here. Played it all so well, was so hard and cold and mean, but wasn't really one of them.

So why did Toris really stay? Toris had all the freedom in the world, it seemed. Could come and go as he pleased. Why did he stay?

Power.

Toris led him through twisting hallways, endless doors, and then they finally found the kitchen. When they pushed through the door, suddenly everything was a lot better, because Irina was bustling about, that boy following behind her like a dog, carrying bowls, and the air was warm and pleasant, and he could smell coffee. Comforting, after that awful trip.

Irina turned and saw them standing there, and she looked somewhat anxious as she met Ludwig's eyes and cried, "Oh! You're back! I'm so glad! Did you...have a good time?"

Her hands were wringing a bit, and the boy at her side stared up at Ludwig in awe, gawking at his uniform.

For a moment, Ludwig only stood there, feeling almost guilty as she waited for him to answer, and then he dropped his shoulders and said, "Yeah. Yeah, it was...good. Everything's good."

Toris didn't say a damn word.

She smiled, brightly, and Ludwig tried to smile too.

"I'm glad! I was worried about you."

Sometimes it was better to lie. Gilbert had taught him that. She didn't need to know.

She dragged Ludwig over and shoved him down into a chair, and refused to allow him to help as he had intended. As he sat there, chin resting upon a clenched fist, he stared at Toris from across the table, and he wondered if this insane gathering of people could ever possibly function as a family. Irina's cheerfulness seemed determined to make it happen, or maybe she was just as crazy as Ivan, and when she pushed a plate of food and a cup of coffee in front of him, he could only say a polite 'thank you' and continue his staring contest with Toris.

Toris stared him down in turn with alarming efficiency.

Maybe he and Toris had just gotten off on the wrong foot. Clashed too soon. They were both too stubborn and irritable. Needed to befriend Toris to survive out here. Ivan may have been the ruler of this universe, but Toris was gravity, and without him Ludwig was doomed to drift.

Irina came around from behind and threw a wool scarf around Ludwig's neck suddenly, and he only sat there, and let her do as she pleased, staring yet at Toris. It seemed, lately, that he was just letting everyone do as they pleased. It was easier that way.

Then they were all sitting, and he took up his fork, and tried to act normal.

Normal. Hardly.

Ludwig ate in silence, as the others spoke and laughed together in Russian, and by the time the coffee was gone and the plates were empty, Toris seemed to be in a much better mood. Which was preferable, since he was obliged to stay in Toris' presence for as long as moody Toris could put up with him. The day passed, the white sun of noon became golden as the evening set in, and he spent the time walking at Toris' side through the halls. Toris started showing him around the house, and a quick tour was alright, too, because if he was going to be living here...

Oh.

A scaling of stairs. Toris pointed out a particularly large painting.

_Living_ here. That was right. This wasn't just Ivan's house. It was his house, too, now wasn't it? Toris' house. Irina's house.

His house.

They passed through the second floor, and every so often, Toris would look over at him, as though wanting to speak, and then would just shake his head and fall silent.

Well, that was alright. _He_ didn't mind making an awkward situation even more awkward.

"Where are you from, Toris?"

Moody, bitchy Toris was just gonna haveta deal with it.

There was another staircase before them, and for a second they stood still, and Toris seemed to be debating on whether to go up or down. Ludwig would have assumed up, since he had not been shown the highest level, but then Toris lifted his chin and suddenly took the stairs down.

As they descended, Toris finally grumbled, "Lithuania."

"A city?"

"A small town. Nothing _you'd_ be familiar with."

Ugh. Toris sure was being difficult.

Ludwig furrowed a brow and stared at the steps as he walked, and for a second he thought it would be better just to shut his mouth, but he was supposed to be making friends, wasn't he? Needed Toris. Didn't like him much, didn't want him anymore than he wanted Ludwig, but needed him. Determined, Ludwig turned his eyes back to Toris and pressed, "A town, huh? That sounds nice. I've never really been out of the city. What did you do there?"

Toris glanced over at him, and that time Ludwig could swear, for a moment, that he smiled. Just for a second.

"My family had a farm," Toris said, and then he snorted, and there was almost a laugh as he added, "I used to watch the sheep, if you can believe that."

Ludwig balked. Toris, this merciless faux Red soldier, one of the scariest men Ludwig had ever met aside from Ivan, one of the hardest, one of the moodiest, one of the most dangerous. Toris, herding sheep. Had he herded them with his fuckin' pistol? Did he slap them, too?

Shock.

Toris' mood was ever improving, and he did smile that time when he saw the expression on Ludwig's face.

"What? Didn't think I was a farmer? You'd be surprised. I remember, sometimes, going out to the market with my parents to sell wool. And even though we didn't need anymore, I'd always come back with a new animal. I don't know that much about it anymore, not really, but I'd thought about looking around here, you know... For land. Irina likes that kind of work, too, and it would be something good for me to do. A hobby."

Their gazes met, and Ludwig, eyes wide and still stunned, asked, dubiously, "You wanted to start a farm...in Siberia?"

Toris saw how astounded Ludwig really was and laughed, _really_ laughed. The sound of it was strange, unfamiliar, but not unpleasant. It wasn't terrifying like Ivan's laugh. Low and deep, in contrast to Ivan's higher pitch. A nice laugh, and to hear it from Toris of all people was stunning.

Ludwig decided then, after having been on the fence for quite some time, that he kinda _liked_ Toris. A little. No matter how shifty his moods and how useless his advice. How Toris could lash out at him. How Toris ditched him when he needed him the most.

Somehow, someway, he liked Toris.

If Toris could still laugh, even now...

Maybe the horizon was not so dark.

"Well," Ludwig finally said, good-humouredly, "I don't know anything about farming, but if you ever find land, I think I'd like to come out and work for you, if you don't mind."

A silence, and then Toris said, drolly, "I think you'd be good for milking cows, but that's all."

The seriousness with which he said it made Ludwig laugh too, another sensation that he had long been without.

He liked Toris. Go figure.

The first floor was back, more endless halls, and Ludwig tucked his hands in his pockets as they roamed around aimlessly, speaking about anything they could think of, and every so often Toris would reach out and open a door, and show him the room inside. None of them were painted, or furnished, and Toris would say, 'Well, this is eventually going to be a library,' or, 'This was going to be a piano room,' or, 'We'll turn this one into art gallery.'

A library? Piano room? Art gallery?

Well, if Toris had his sights set on it, then Ludwig would keel over dead before he dashed even _that_ simple hope. But he did accept one thing as an indisputable fact : Ivan knew nothing about decorating. Some of the rooms had rolls of carpet set up in the corner, abandoned before they had even been set down. Some of the rare furniture that he did see looked like it had been plucked out of the dark ages.

God help him, suddenly playing house with Ivan didn't seem so bad, and if Ludwig could at least get his hands on some of that war chest money that Ivan had mentioned, then he could at least buy some decent wallpaper.

For now, he would just suppress his cringe and let Toris dream.

"Do you play the piano, Ludwig?"

A pang.

Roderich's fingers, drifting over the keys as Ludwig had stood behind, watching in awe.

"...no. Do you?"

"No. There's one upstairs. I mess around with it sometimes when I get bored, but I don't really know how. I thought about going down to Lensk one day and taking lessons from the orchestra."

"Why don't you?"

Toris only shrugged a shoulder, smiling as he walked straight ahead, and it all was going very well, until Ludwig opened his mouth again. Goddamn him and goddamn mouth. Couldn't help it.

Wanted to feel like someone here understood him.

"How'd you get here, Toris? How did he get you?"

There was a terrible, suffocating silence, in which Toris' smile fell and his eyes darkened, and then he pursed his lips and sped his pace, hissing, irritably, "That's none of your _business_!"

The good mood was gone and there was no getting it back, and Ludwig only walked behind the agitated Toris, brow low and staring at the floor again.

Tactless. Why couldn't he assess a situation before he said dumb things?

The more he thought about it, as the clock ticked by, the stupider it seemed, because if someone he barely knew had come up to him, in Lensk for example, and had asked Ludwig that same question, he probably would have told them to shut up and fuck off. Which was exactly what Toris had said, come to think, only in politer words.

Actually, _he_ might have punched them in the face.

And, come to think again, Toris kinda looked like he wanted to clock Ludwig one in the nose. He didn't, luckily, and Ludwig hung his head. If Ivan asked him again what he wanted for Christmas, now only four days away, he would ask, perhaps, for a book on how to overcome being a socially illiterate idiot.

...Ivan would probably buy him a Russian version.

Suddenly, Ludwig blurted aloud, without thinking, "Will you try to teach me Russian?"

A pause, and then Toris snipped, with a look of disgust, "No," and said nothing more.

Shit.

The halls passed, and his mood was foundering too, but then suddenly there were two more voices in the hallway. They didn't sound much happier. Toris froze in his tracks, but Ludwig, his curiosity too great, rounded the corner right off. His curiosity would probably prove fatal one of these days. Toris was beside him, then, but he almost didn't notice. In the hall before him, standing before each other in a surprisingly electric atmosphere, stood Irina and Ivan.

They were hissing at each other. Well, Ivan was hissing, and Irina was shouting, and every few seconds she would raise her finger and poke it into Ivan's chest, and he would step back from her and then forward again, and even from where he stood Ludwig could see the storm brewing in his eyes.

He feared, suddenly, for Irina. What was she _thinking_? Antagonizing Ivan like that. That dangerous man.

Toris seemed supremely unconcerned, however, and only stood there, leaning against the wall and listening with a high brow and a sneer.

Ludwig looked over, and asked, anxiously, "What are they arguing about?"

Toris scoffed, and crossed his arms, shaking his head as he muttered, "You! What else?"

Him?

Ludwig felt the nervous squirm in his stomach, and wished that Toris would be a little more sympathetic to his plight, just once. Maybe his helpless stare gave away his thoughts, because Toris shifted his weight, and added, with a beleaguered sigh, "Irina wants to take you out around town. Ivan doesn't want you to go."

"Why?"

Toris rolled his eyes. "Irina has a habit of...getting into trouble, even if she doesn't mean to. He doesn't like for her to wander around outside. And he doesn't want _you_ trying to play hero and doing something that will be an annoyance for him later."

Well. He didn't understand what all of _that_ meant, necessarily, but it didn't matter anymore, because at that moment, Ivan must have said something exceedingly rude or disrespectful, for Irina drew back her hand and slapped him straight across the face. For a moment, Ivan almost staggered at the force she used. Damn—she had some muscle on her.

Ludwig froze in shock.

The sound echoed in the hall.

Everything was still.

The first emotion that successfully broke through Ludwig's shock was complete disbelief; Irina had _slapped_ Ivan. Wait. Slapped him? No one hit Ivan. No one would dare!

And the next emotion was _horror_ , because he knew that Ivan's retaliation would be swift and merciless, and Irina was just a woman, no match for Ivan's ruthless brutality, and she was so sweet and too clumsy to escape. He would have made short work of her.

Ivan straightened up, the look of his face absolutely terrifying.

Toris only watched, looking somehow amused. Made no twitch at all, no step forward. Toris certainly wasn't going to run to Irina's rescue. Dammit, Toris! Putting Ludwig yet again into another bad situation with his immobility.

Ivan inhaled, sharply, and his foot lifted.

Goddammit—no choice. Toris wouldn't move, and so Ludwig had to. Had to. Before Ivan could strike, Ludwig bolted forward out from the shadows, jumping in front of Irina and pressing his back against her, standing straight and ready and completely willing to accept any blow that Ivan would throw. Irina meant as little to Ludwig as Toris did in the end, but she was still a woman.

Hitting a woman was something far beyond reprehensible. Roderich had taught him that much. Couldn't stand the thought of it. There still had to be some etiquette out here. Ivan's world was ruthless, but it was hard to let go of his own world where people had dignity and rules.

For a moment no one moved, as Ludwig stood there with braced legs and shoulders, Irina tucked behind him, and then Ludwig realized, with a lurch of apprehension, that Toris was _laughing_. He glanced quickly over, to see Toris leaning back against the wall, snickering away and shaking his head to himself, smile breathless and so amused. Ludwig turned his head again, and looked at Ivan.

Ivan just stood there, cheek red from where Irina had slapped him, brow low and lips pursed. Didn't move, wasn't lunging, and hadn't yet punched Ludwig in the nose.

...damn. All of a sudden, Ludwig felt more like a fool than a hero, and more so when Toris was struggling to catch his breath because he was laughing so hard. Only stopped laughing, come to think, when Ivan turned that terrifying expression over to him, and then Toris shut up quickly enough.

Then Irina reached up from behind and pinched Ludwig's cheek gently, crooning, "Oh, Ludwig! You're so sweet! Look at you! You're a real gentleman, you know!"

She didn't sound grateful, not really, not as if Ludwig had saved her. Sounded more like she was talking to a little kid. His cheeks were blazing red all of a sudden, and Ludwig's tense posture slumped completely. Felt so stupid.

Irina lowered her voice to a whisper, and said, in Ludwig's ear, "Don't worry, he would never hit _me_." Raising her voice, she looked over, meeting Ivan's furious eyes, and added, slyly, "I used to spank him when he was little!"

Ivan's other cheek turned as red as the one Irina had slapped, and his eyes narrowed into dangerous slits. Ludwig was too distracted by his own embarrassment to focus much on Ivan's.

At last, Ivan spoke up, and his voice was not soothing that time. That cold, firm, stern voice he used when he was angry. Funny how that pretty voice turned into an actual razor when Ivan needed it to. Cut, alright.

"Irina, he's not going with you. Just leave. _Now_."

She must not have felt the cut, for she was undaunted, pushing Ludwig aside to once more face Ivan.

"What! With you in such a bad mood now? You can be so rude, sometimes, Ivan."

"You test my patience. Leave."

"Let him go with me, just today! Nothing bad will happen. He can handle himself. He can't stay in here forever!"

"It's too cold."

"Ah—! It's _always_ cold!"

Ludwig only frowned, and wondered if either of them would ask him, at any point, where exactly _he_ wanted to go.

They never did.

Finally, seeing that he was getting nowhere, Ivan sighed, relenting under Irina's loud determination, and reached up, scratching irritably at his collar and grumbling, "Well! Well... Take him, then, if you want. You have an hour. And _don't_ get into trouble."

Wait, wait, he hadn't agreed to any of this—

Eagerly, Irina began to pull Ludwig away to god only knew where, but before they were out of reach, Ivan's hand was suddenly around Ludwig's arm, and he was pulled back so forcefully that he nearly stumbled. When he looked over, Ivan met his eyes with that awful intensity, and he added, softly, " _You_ keep track of time. She gets distracted. One hour. From this minute. Don't make me come looking for you. Either of you."

For a horrible second, Ludwig found himself caught under Ivan's silent warning, as he had been caught under Natalia's earlier, but then Irina came back and waved her hand in Ivan's face, fussing, "You're scaring him! Go away! I'll bring him back when I feel like it!"

A final squeeze on his arm, as Ivan grunted something in Russian, and then he turned on his heel and stalked off, and Ludwig could only stare after him as Irina took his hand.

Suddenly, he didn't want to go with Irina anymore (had he ever?) because Ivan was in a bad mood, and if Ivan sat alone and brooded, there was no telling what he would come back home to. Ludwig wanted to stay exactly where he was and follow behind Ivan, and go into damage control. Before he wound up like Toris.

Inevitable.

"Come on," Irina goaded, pulling him along, "Walk with me! Do you want to see the town?"

No.

He didn't, and it was too goddamn cold. She started dragging him, awaiting no answer, and Ludwig looked desperately over at Toris, hoping for help. But, as always, Toris just stood there, looking once more foul and irritated. A wave of Toris' hand in the air, as Toris threw him into the winds, and then he was gone.

The bastard.

A whirlwind, as Irina dragged Ludwig to the front door, opened the closet, and Ludwig stood there obediently as Irina dressed him up as heavily as Toris had the morning prior. Weighed down by layer after layer. Suffocated. Stifled.

Did no one here really care that Ludwig had almost died last night? Could he catch a goddamn breather? Could he just lay down for a minute and rest? Did no one notice how exhausted and spent he was?

No one cared.

When only Ludwig's eyes were visible, Irina dressed a bit less heavily and her entire face exposed, it was time to go. The door burst open, and he was dragged out. Her grip was surprisingly firm. Strong. Ludwig just realized, with fear, that he didn't have a watch. How was he supposed to keep track of time?

The air was just as mercilessly cold as he had expected it to be, and he hated that maybe he was becoming used to it, as she held his hand and tugged him along enthusiastically.

This frozen little town. What could she show him here?

They walked down the path, and he could barely keep up with her fast pace. Extremely intent on getting him into town, it seemed, and she kept looking over and smiling at him as their lashes froze over, and even though he was irritated at being dragged out here, he couldn't really seem to stay angry with her.

In the back of his mind, all he could think of...

Ivan was brooding.

The driveway was long, and at the end stood the great gate, the low-hanging trees, and then they were on a quiet street, and the buildings were so sparse and tiny that he felt like he had walked into the jungle and had discovered some remote new tribe of humans. So small.

"That's the post office," she said, pointing here, "and that's the doctor's house," she pointed there, "and that's the KGB office," she pointed ahead. "See? It's so small here. Everyone knows everyone."

He didn't doubt it. What? Maybe a hundred people, in the entire town? Less?

When they passed the KGB office, the door burst open and two men stood in the frame, and they leered across the street, cheeks red from the cold and breath visible, the guns at their waists gleaming in the pale sun as they watched them go by. Irina smiled at them, but only briefly and rather sneeringly. Her grip on his hand tightened, all the same.

One of the men leaned forward and crooned something smoothly in Russian, their shameless eyes firmly upon her chest, despite the heavy coat, and Ludwig couldn't help but furrow his brow in irritation as Irina's cheeks flushed a deep red, and she sped her pace. The men stepped out of the doorway as though meaning to follow her, still catcalling, and Ludwig, agitated, looked over his shoulder and sent them a withering glare.

Was glad he couldn't understand what they were shouting.

They observed his hand entangled with hers, and then they giggled, and threw their hands in the air in mock surrender, shouting coarse words that were probably innuendos, maybe congratulations, although Irina was old enough to be Ludwig's mother. He understood now why Ivan was so uneasy about Irina coming out. Why he had been concerned about Ludwig getting into trouble on Irina's behalf.

He was right to be concerned, and Ludwig just wanted to go back.

Ludwig had already started one fight with a Red soldier, and in the right circumstance would have started another one with a KGB officer, unwise though it was.

His head hurt all the time. Couldn't think straight. His agitation was mingled with a nervous lurch that he couldn't place.

Ivan was brooding.

They kept walking, passing through the streets until all of the houses were gone, and then there was another path, lined with small trees and unpaved. The frozen dirt glittered with ice crystals and mica, she never once released his hand, and he wondered now where they were going.

Ludwig was well beyond frozen by then, stiff and numb and his lashes weighed down. Her exposed face must have been entirely numb, but she didn't seem so bothered by it.

The path twisted this way and that, and then, suddenly, gaping up from the ground, there was a _massive_ crater. Absolutely massive, and it cut into the earth as though a great comet had fallen there. All around it there were heavy iron bars, a fence to prevent one from falling in, and the layers of dirt that were cut down into it twisted in the mist. He couldn't see the bottom from where he stood. For the mist, he could not see the other side. He had never seen anything like it. Hadn't ever seen anything that _big._

The most instantly awe-inspiring thing he had ever seen.

"What is _that_?" he asked, and now it was he who was leading Irina as he trotted forward, wanting to get a good look at this—this _thing_ , whatever it was, and she only smiled as he dragged her along. When they reached the railing, he gripped the bars in his hands and leaned far over, gaping down into the void, and feeling very much astonished.

Felt like a kid there for a second, seeing a mountain for the first time. Awe. Wonder.

Only this mountain was inside out. Down, way down, there were men working on the makeshift roads that they had cut into the earth, even in such cold they worked, and at the very bottom there was a pit of frozen, blue-green water. Ancient, sulfuric, volcanic water, stagnant with years of chemicals and natural sediment.

Irina let him look this way and that in awe, and then she leaned against the railing too, grabbing his arm firmly as though she was frightened that he would topple over the edge.

Damn! The most fascinating thing he had ever seen. For the first time since it all began, Ludwig forgot all of his worry and fear and pain and regret, everything, because there was only wonder. Forgot everything, and it was beautiful. Enough to take his mind from the world around him. Enough to bring out that old feeling of normalcy, in that sudden desire he had to learn about something new. Human nature, really, wanting to learn.

Just wanted to stop thinking.

"It's the diamond mine," Irina finally said, and Ludwig could only stare down at it. Could have come out here every day and looked at this thing. Irina smiled over at him, at his gawking, and seemed a little brighter. "They keep making it bigger and bigger. Sometimes you can find little ones, around here on the ground, if you look really hard. Ivan's got so many at home! He always has some cut, for Christmas, or my birthday. Special occasions. He's sweet, you know, he really is. Just wait, I bet he'll give you some, too. I don't like wearing them too much, I'm afraid I'll lose them. You can have them, if you want. Save them for something. Ivan really is sweet."

Sweet? Hardly the word that Ludwig would have thought of when it came to Ivan.

Well, then; this would explain how they all lived so comfortably, and how Ivan managed to go wherever he wanted, whenever he wanted. How he could hold such grand balls. How he seemed to own the country. This house. This town.

Hardly better than blood diamonds.

Ivan was a general in the Red Army with access to endless diamonds. He truly _did_ own the world. Ludwig realized it completely then. And he understood at the same time why Toris stayed. To have that world under his feet.

...it _was_ appealing, certainly. To some people.

"It will dry up soon, I'm sure," Irina suddenly said, wistfully, and Ludwig only stared into the void.

They fell silent, and Irina was shifting her weight back and forth, suddenly anxious, or maybe she was jittery. Wanted to talk, but wasn't sure how to start.

"Did I tell you that Ivan is my little brother?"

"No," he replied, immediately, and yet somehow he was not surprised.

They had the same color hair, and both she and Natalia had hinted at it. Similar eyes.

"Well, he is!" she said, a bit nervously, and Ludwig suddenly had the urge to retreat. "My little brother. He's so tall now, so big, you wouldn't believe he was ever so tiny when he was young. He's... Look, I know how scared you must have been out there. It can be frightening, at first. But I don't think that Ivan will ever mean for anything bad to happen to you. Sometimes, he can be a little hard to understand. Even to me."

A serious understatement.

How awkward.

They stood against the railing, and Irina was leaning farther into his side, for warmth and maybe comfort, and Ludwig could see just from her expression that she had brought him out here for something very specific.

And it didn't take long to find out what.

"You know," she began, as she pressed more firmly into his side, "I still remember when Ivan was very small. He was so happy! He was such a sweet child, he really was. He used to follow me all the time. He wanted to go everywhere that I went. I didn't always let him. I usually made him stay at home. He hated being alone, he never wanted to be alone for even a minute. He loved our mother so much. She adored Ivan. He was her favorite. I was daddy's."

Oh, god. He had a feeling about where this was going.

Ivan's father had gone crazy.

"I should have let him come with me more, when I think about it. He was only eight then, you know, and so smart. He was so smart, you wouldn't believe! Me, so much older, and sometimes he helped me with my math homework. But I never really spent time with him. He got on my nerves. I wanted him to leave me alone most of the time. Well. I went out with friends _that_ night. I used to have lots of friends, back in Moscow. I was in my last year of school. I was so happy, that I had almost graduated. I went out to the theatre. I left Ivan with our parents. Mother had been so sad lately, I don't know why, and I thought it would be good for both of them."

Ludwig shifted his weight. He wasn't sure that he wanted to hear this, but didn't have much of a choice.

Irina's voice was low.

"I don't know what happened. I didn't even know that daddy felt so _bad._ He never said anything about it, so how would I know? To tell the truth, I still don't know what happened. Ivan just won't talk about it. I asked him, over and over, what happened, but he won't tell me. All I know is what the police told me. While I was out, daddy got his gun, and then he came downstairs, and he shot my mother in the head, right in front of Ivan. And then... He shot Ivan, in the chest—" her hands raised up and fell atop her chest, as though she were reliving her brother's ordeal "—and then he shot himself. Our neighbor heard the shots, and called the police, and they waited there at the house until I got home, and they took me to the hospital so that I could be with Ivan. They thought he would die, but he didn't. He was too strong. But he just laid there after. He wouldn't talk to me about it. I stayed there with him, every day. But when they let him go... That boy that came out of the hospital wasn't my little brother. He didn't follow me around anymore. He wasn't the same."

Ludwig was silent.

"It was hard, after. We were alone. I tried to work, for Ivan, you know, but I wasn't really very good at anything. He had to start working so young, and he went into the army as soon as they would let him join. But, everything worked out in the end, I guess. He just didn't care about anyone anymore. He wasn't afraid of anything! He still isn't. All of that hard work, and now look at him. He has everything. He never stopped smiling, you know, even when it was hard."

He shifted again, restlessly.

That smile may have been constant, but it wasn't exactly sound.

Ludwig, honestly, didn't want to know this. Why did she have to tell him this? So much better when he didn't know.

Turning back to him, Irina reached out, and took his hands, and the look on her face was something that Ludwig hadn't ever seen. A horrible mix of regret and determination and sadness.

"It's all my fault, you see, because I wasn't there to protect him, like I should have been. I always let him down." She met his eyes, and tried to smile. "You know how much your big brother protected you when you were little? That's what I tried to do for him. But I was no good. I let him down. I messed up. It's my fault that Ivan is the way he is."

Better when he didn't know, because he _hated_ that he understood her. That he sympathized with Ivan. Because Gilbert had let him down, too. Hated having a reason to empathize with that man.

He broke her gaze and turned his eyes out onto the vast, shimmering diamond pit, and the churning in his stomach was uncomfortable and his nose was numb. Wanted to run away, quite suddenly.

Finally, he managed to asked, "Why are you telling me this?"

She looked out, too, and gripped his hands. "Because," she began, and Ludwig could hear the earnestness in her voice, "So that you'll see that he's... He's not really a bad person! It's my fault, that he turned out like he did. I couldn't protect him. But he's still my little brother, and he's not so bad, really he isn't. If you could just see... He's not a bad person. Do you see, how he smiles when you're around? He cares for you, I know he does! If you could just see. He's not a bad person. He can't help it. It's not his fault."

Who was she trying so hard to convince? Him? Or herself?

Sounded so familiar, so damn familiar, and that was because Ludwig had been telling himself that for years and years. That it wasn't Gilbert's fault that he was crazy, that he couldn't help it.

Didn't want to understand these people, never wanted to, didn't want to be able to connect with them.

Ludwig had many things running through his head, but the only thing that came out then was a weak, lame, "Well, it's not _your_ fault. How could you know? You'd be dead, too, if you'd stayed."

She tried to smile, but it fell, and then she asked Ludwig, rather pointedly, "Why didn't he just kill me, too? I don't understand why he didn't kill me, too."

Why did she seek answers from him? How would _he_ know? Didn't know a damn thing about anything of them. He should have comforted her all the same, he knew. He should have said, 'Because you were his favorite,' or, 'Because he wanted you to take care of your little brother,' or _something_.

Anything.

But he only stared at her, and then shrugged, helplessly, and she turned away, eyes on the ground and brow furrowed.

She said no more, and started leading him back.

He was as useless as Toris.

Hell, what was he supposed to say to that? What could he have ever said? Everyone here was so crazy, felt so out of his reach. Even her; couldn't figure her out, either, as much as Ivan. None of them.

He didn't belong here.

The town passed, the sun was almost gone, and then there was the gate again. They didn't speak the whole while they walked up, and when he was back inside the house, she sent him another smile, undressed him, and then shoved him off down the hall. Where was he supposed to go? Did she want him to seek out Ivan? Didn't know what she wanted.

He would rather just go to sleep.

Ivan had been brooding.

Ludwig looked back at the door to get his bearings, and tried to trace his way back to the room that he called his own, despite the veil of faint darkness and the fact that every room looked the same. The sun sank past the horizon. Would Ivan come looking for him? He had passed his curfew surely. Felt so much longer than an hour. Doors and doors, and then he paused in front of the one that he was relatively certain was his, looking over both shoulders to make sure that he was not being followed. Ivan always managed to sneak up on him.

The halls were empty.

Satisfied, he raised his hand to the doorknob.

And then he froze still.

He heard someone whispering. Through the door.

Even though he should have just turned on his heel right then and there and retreated back to the warmth and safety of Irina (who he almost considered a literal human shield; if Ivan would not touch her, then why not hide behind her?) but god help him and goddamn curiosity. Couldn't help it. Just couldn't. Wanted to know. Wanted to see.

Inhaling through his nose and bracing his feet, he reached out and grabbed the doorknob, and pushed it open, just a crack. Leaning in, he pressed his ear against the gap, and listened. Whispering in Russian. Only one voice. A conversation with no one. There was no light from within. Only darkness. Cold air.

He knew better. Go back.

Yet still he furrowed his brow, and pushed open the door. The room was dark. He took a bold step inside, and let his eyes adjust. The moon could barely stream in through the thick curtains. He looked around the room, heart racing nervously. He couldn't see anyone, not on the bed. Not in the corner. No shadows stirred. Seemed empty. Maybe he was losing it. Reaching out behind, he shut the door gently closed, and then flipped on the light. A moment of adrenaline. He squinted. And there was nothing. No one. No whispering.

Nothing.

He stood still for a moment, and his arms fell loose at his sides, and he wondered, blearily, if he was going crazy, too. Figured. It wouldn't be the first time he had wondered that. He used to wonder all the time about his real parents, and where he had come from. If he had bad blood. If there had been something wrong with them, and therefore something wrong with him. Like Ivan. Maybe his parents had been crazy, and eventually he would become that way, too.

A heaviness in his chest.

Felt so tired, still. His wrist still ached from the needle. His feet still stung. Just wanted to rest. With a heavy sigh, he turned around to kick off his boots. As soon as he turned, though, as soon as he was facing the door, he froze still in his tracks. His head starting hurting. His chest lit up. Aching, everywhere.

Something was staring at him from the dark corner, peering out from shadow.

Ivan.


	21. Steel Insanity

**Chapter 21**

**Steel Insanity**

Ludwig couldn't breathe.

Ivan was in the corner, sitting back in a chair, book in hand, and watching him. _Always_ watching him. Always. Always snuck up on him. Always appeared as if from nowhere.

Ludwig shuddered, as Ivan stared blankly at him from the shadows, not moving a muscle, and then Ludwig managed to stammer a lame, "H-hey."

No response.

Ivan set the book down in his lap, and tilted his head, like a dog observing a stranger, and it was then that Ludwig noticed the near-empty bottle of vodka sitting next to him on the floor, the redness of Ivan's cheeks and the bleariness in his eyes. His uniform was gone, dressed instead in a simple button-up shirt and slacks. The collar was undone. Wrinkled. Messy. Intoxicated, for sure. Had never seen Ivan like that.

Shoulda stayed with Irina.

Scared and nervous, Ludwig said, in a softer voice, "I'm sorry. Was I late? I didn't mean to be."

No answer.

Ivan didn't really seem to hear him, and leaned farther back in the chair, bowing his head down into his chest for his intoxication, and it was with a voice so soft that it was barely audible that he finally whispered, "You're back."

A shiver.

Ludwig could only nod, glancing at the door for an easy escape should it become necessary, and then Ivan's fingers gripped the armrests of the chair so hard that his knuckles turned white.

"Took you long enough," he added, in a mutter, and then he looked up, and Ludwig's unease was becoming almost unbearable.

Ivan's lidded eyes were dark-rimmed and tired, dark circles beneath, and hell, he looked almost as though he had been _crying_. But that was absurd, because Ivan did not cry. Surely not. Not that man.

Ivan sat there, slumped in the chair, book nestled on his lap, hair unkempt and smiling impassively, hands clenching and unclenching, and Ludwig wondered, with something that felt like horror, if this was how Ivan's father had looked on the night he had gone crazy and murdered his wife, and then himself.

Ludwig took a step back. Time to get the hell out of here. Ivan was too close to the door, though, so he just fidgeted and didn't know where to go.

Ivan stood up then, unsteadily, and the book fell onto the floor with a dull thud as he wobbled a little. A shake of his head, an inhale, and then Ivan lifted his head up and started advancing.

Ludwig could only back up, farther and farther, until he reached the edge of the bed, and Ivan was so close that he could smell the vodka.

"Hey," Ludwig suddenly said, trying to regain control, "you drank too much, didn't you? Lay down." Going out on a limb, he added, tentatively, "What would Irina say, if she saw you like this?"

For horrible moment, he thought that he had said the wrong thing, as Ivan's eyes narrowed, but then he only snorted, and started laughing.

"You're funny," he tittered, as Ludwig tried to determine whether or not he could be easily outmaneuvered. "But you took so long. She shouldn't have made you go out. She never listens to me."

Ivan swayed to and fro, his voice slurred and soft, and Ludwig took his chance and suddenly sprang forward like a deer, aiming for the door.

He was only a deer; Ivan was a tiger.

With one impossibly fast movement, Ivan had reached out and snatched Ludwig by the back of his shirt. A yank, a pressure on his throat as his own shirt almost strangled him, and then Ludwig had been tossed back on the bed. Ivan was too damn fast, even dead drunk, and as Ludwig laid there, Ivan crawling steadily over, he could only stare at the ceiling with a furrowed brow and wonder what the hell he had gotten himself into now.

Ivan fell onto his back beside him, throwing a heavy arm over his chest, and fell still.

Was dizzy, his heart was beating so fast. Ivan surely felt it hammering beneath his arm. Ivan groaned beside of him, probably trying to get the world to stop spinning, and then Ivan rolled over onto his side so that he was facing Ludwig.

Fingers ran up to his face, and Ivan forced Ludwig's head to turn so that they were nose to nose.

Couldn't breathe. No air. Panic was mounting and constricting his chest.

Ivan stared into his eyes then, so drunk, and Ludwig remembered Irina's stupid story. Couldn't help but think of Ivan as a child, then, standing before the barrel of a gun held by his father. Ivan, lying in the hospital on death's door. Dammit. Irina's pleas for understanding rang in his ears.

Didn't want to understand, but lied there so still all the same as Ivan's bleary eyes traced over his face.

A crooked smile, somewhat charming, and Ivan whispered, simply, "You're so pretty."

Understanding.

His hammering heart started to steady. His airway opened up a little. The panic was steadily being overtaken by lethargy. Was so tired, and honestly it was just easier and less work to sit there and be still. To be quiet, and obedient. Ivan's fingers ran down his neck, up and down, and Ludwig closed his eyes. Could have fallen asleep, even, under Ivan's rough palm.

Ivan seemed pleased at his silence, at his stillness, and then his hand lowered from Ludwig's neck to trail down his chest. A pressure on his side, as Ivan leaned a bit over him. Could smell the vodka, strong as it was, and Ivan's cologne underneath. Kept his eyes shut, because it was easier to not panic that way. Easier to keep calm if he couldn't see Ivan.

Hell, maybe some part of him hoped Ivan would think he was asleep and fall asleep in turn.

Not quite; there was a whisper in Russian, right in his ear, and then lips on his neck. More pressure, as Ivan rolled ever farther on top of his. Hands, running rather harshly down his sides.

He didn't move. It was easier to sit still.

Ivan's hands were rough and aggressive. Relentless. Possessive. But he didn't move, not even when Ivan was suddenly entirely on top of him with his full weight. Could barely breathe, Ivan was so heavy, and for a moment Ivan fell utterly still. Oh—please be _asleep_ , please, please. Just pass out. Just wanted him to pass out.

He didn't.

After a minute of deep breathing, Ivan's hands started moving again and everything was too warm. At last, at long last, Ludwig opened his eyes. Ivan was staring down at him, pushing their noses together, and Ludwig tried to cling to hope. Hope. Couldn't panic, couldn't lose it, because this was his home now and he was trapped, his entire existence now resting in the hands of this crazy man.

Gilbert's life, beyond the wall, depended on Ludwig's cooperation.

Ivan hadn't tried to _hurt_ him. Hadn't. Hadn't hurt him, really, at least not until Ludwig had forced him to. Ivan had only ever lashed out when Ludwig had acted out. Had never instigated any physical violence with Ludwig, not once.

Ivan wouldn't hurt him.

Whatever Ivan had in mind, whatever Ivan wanted, Ludwig was ready to give it to him, because it would keep Gilbert safe and it wasn't going to kill him. There were such worse things happening in the world, such cruel things, and maybe Ludwig should have tried harder to find the positive and realize that he wasn't in such an awful position, really.

So tired.

Ivan, whatever else could be said, was responsible. Ivan kept his word.

Ivan stared down at him for a while, and then he leaned down and kissed him. That time, Ludwig didn't move. Didn't shove Ivan off. Didn't resist. Just lied still. He closed his eyes and stayed still, reminding himself that he had agreed to come here. It was all for Gilbert. A deal was a deal. Had to keep thinking it, had to keep repeating it.

Hands under his shirt. Whispering in his ear. Ivan's gentle voice.

Ludwig had thought that being compliant would make things _easier_ , but something shifted.

Quickly. Frighteningly. Completely at random.

Ivan kissed him again, roughly, and then pulled back. He was smiling, and something on his face made Ludwig shudder.

"Hey, why don't we play a game?" Ivan suddenly whispered, in that slur, and he pulled himself up onto his knees, his weight above Ludwig's stomach, and now something was _different_.

The air wasn't as warm. Ivan looked different although Ludwig couldn't put his finger on it. He squirmed under Ivan then as much as he had Natalia. Ivan's eyes were strange, and distant. Odd. Bleary. He wasn't really sure if Ivan was even still _there_.

Fear.

Ludwig tried to open his mouth and respond, but before he could find his voice, Ivan had reached into his coat, and there was a gleam in the dim light. A gun. And now the air was freezing, Ivan was far too heavy above him, and his heart was racing so terribly that he was afraid it would explode. Fear burned up into terror.

Ivan sat there, gun in hand, looking down at Ludwig with that same tilted head from before, as though gazing at someone he did not completely recognize. Lost somewhere, maybe, in his head.

That familiar feeling of being utterly terrorized came back up.

Ludwig managed to ask, with a tremor, "Hey, what's...what's with the gun? Ha! You shouldn't play with that."

Ivan was not a child to reprimand, but he had to say _something_ , and Ivan was so damn drunk that who could know what horrible things were running through his head. Better to try and distract him, try to get him to put that damn thing down.

Ivan, rough and messy and so dangerous, just scoffed.

"Don't worry, it's a fun game. I used to play it all the time."

Ivan's hand moved, and suddenly the gun pressed into Ludwig's forehead, and it was as if the world had stopped spinning. Air vanished. The bed under him seemed to sink. Felt distant. Cold. Far away. He froze completely still, as Ivan weighed heavily above him, and when he looked into Ivan's distant eyes, he was not absolutely certain that Ivan was looking back at him.

If Ivan even _saw_ him there.

Hadn't ever been so scared, not even when he had tried to run. Fuckin' gun pressed into his head like that. Nowhere to go. Couldn't run. Pinned down and helpless. Not strong enough to get away. Ivan was too heavy, too strong.

The click of the hammer.

His heart thudded sickeningly in his chest, and oh god, Ivan was going to _shoot_ him—

Ivan spoke up, and his voice was high and slurred and almost eager. Happy. Content.

"Have you ever played Russian roulette, Ludwig?" Before Ludwig could open his mouth and stammer a response, Ivan had pressed the gun harder into his forehead, and he could feel the cold metal digging into his skin, and then he added, "You know the rules, don't you? One bullet. We take turns. How about I go first?"

He was gonna die here, he knew it.

Ivan raised his other hand and spun the chamber of the gun in show.

"Ready?"

Felt like everything was in slow motion then. Hadn't breathed in eternity.

Ludwig's hands began to tremble down at his sides, as Ivan pressed him down into the bed, knees pinning him on either side, and oh, why had he ever left with Irina in the first place? If he had just stayed like Ivan had wanted, then he wouldn't have had time to get drunk and start hearing whatever fucking voices he heard, and maybe in this instance, Ivan was being possessed by his father.

He had been so _stupid_ , to think that he was immune from Ivan. To think that he had been safe. To have ever felt safe.

Wanted to cry.

"Ivan," Ludwig began, and he said the name as firmly as he could for the tremor in his voice, "Stop. Look at me! Look, please. You said... You said you wouldn't ever hurt me, remember?"

He hated pleading. Hated talking like that. Hated casting aside his pride. What else could he really do? He was tired, exhausted, hated this place and this man and this town, hated himself, hated everything, but he didn't want to die. Just like in the snow, the survival instinct came rushing up. Wanted to live, even if there wasn't anything to live for.

Gilbert was gone.

He had been _so_ stupid. No one was immune to Ivan. No one.

"Ivan, it's _me_. Remember? Hey! Look here. You promised!"

For a second, Ivan's brow came up, and Ludwig thought that maybe he had broken through the crazed, drunken haze, and he felt the hope rising in his chest.

"It won't hurt. I promise. My mother didn't feel a thing! You won't either."

"Your mother?" Ludwig began, in a desperate attempt to bide time as the steel pressed down, "I don't know anything about your mother, Ivan. Tell me about her."

Ivan's brow was back down. The gun pressed harder than ever. His soft voice was sharp and dangerous when he spoke. Frightening.

"What? You think I don't know Irina told you? You think I don't know that Toris knows? _Everyone_ knows, or they think they do! I know _everything_ they say about me! I know _everything_ they do behind my back! I know _everything_! They think I don't! What? Do they think I'm stupid? Do you? I know everything about you, but what do you know?"

He was losing the battle.

"Ivan! _Please_ , stop. Stop. Please. Listen—"

"Just be quiet, now. This won't hurt."

Oh, god.

_I won't ever leave you._

The world stopped. Felt sick.

_You can depend on me._

Ivan's finger contracted.

_We'll be together..._

...he had wanted to hold Gilbert's hand, just once more. Missed Gilbert so _much_ —

_Forever._

Ivan squeezed the trigger.

He cried out and squinted his eyes shut, and everything was so intensely silent that he _knew_ he had died, and his head split open like it was on fire, and the white light of what could have been death was flashing before his eyes.

Quiet. Suffocating silence. Everything was still. He felt numb.

He was dead.

And then there was a laugh.

His eyes shot open so fast that colored lights danced across his vision, and there was Ivan above him, the gun still pressed into his forehead. And then Ivan pulled the trigger again, and again, and every time the click resonated Ludwig couldn't help but flinch, and he was shaking so badly that he was surprised Ivan could even stay up on top of him.

One final click.

Then silence.

He had never known he could tremble like this. Not like this. As if every muscle in his body were being shocked. He thought he would vomit. So terrified.

"You were so _scared_!" Ivan suddenly laughed, and then he threw the gun across the room, and took Ludwig's face within his hands, forcing him to look up and meet his eyes, and this time, Ivan was looking back at him. Ivan was back. He was smiling, sloppily. "Hey! It wasn't loaded, you know! I told you it wouldn't hurt! See, I always keep my promises to you. I promised I wouldn't hurt you. And so I didn't. It was a joke! See, it wasn't loaded, calm down. I was just playing with you."

Ludwig shut his eyes then, if only to keep himself from bursting into tears, and Ivan collapsed above him, burying his face in the crook of his neck. Couldn't breathe. Oh, god. Oh _god_ , he couldn't handle this. Couldn't take it. Wasn't brave enough, wasn't strong enough. Wasn't sure enough.

His squinted eyes were the only thing then that kept his tears at bay. He was so close to just breaking down. So close. Could feel it.

Pressing his lips into Ludwig's neck, Ivan muttered, blearily, "It was a joke. Feel your heart. It's going so fast! Oh, you were so scared! Don't be scared of me. I won't hurt you. But you're so brave. You don't even cry. Hey! Don't be angry. It was just a joke. You don't need to be angry. It was a joke. Please, I was just playing with you. Just having fun."

And then Ivan's speech dissolved into an odd, drunken mess of German and Russian that Ludwig couldn't understand, and Ivan reached up, running his left hand fervently through Ludwig's hair as he continued to mutter incoherently. Ludwig could only clench his fingers in the blanket, and it took every ounce of self-control he had to keep himself from dissolving into sobs, because, _Christ_ , he had died, he had died. He was so sure he had died.

He was not brave.

He had died.

He was not brave.

Ivan kept on saying it, kept saying he was brave, and each time it felt less and less true.

Ivan shifted above him, and then he looked up, chin resting upon Ludwig's collarbone with painful force, and he was still smiling when he gathered up enough German to whisper, "Look. Why are you so upset? I was only playing with you! Don't be upset, I promised I wouldn't hurt you, remember? Why are you upset? Don't be mad at me."

_Oh_ , wouldn't he just shut up? Would there be no reprieve? He had died.

Shut up.

He was already one wrong word away from bursting into tears. Wasn't that enough?

A warm hand ran down his neck, falling on top and squeezing, not enough to cut off air, only a gentle grip, and Ivan whispered, in a strange voice, "Why did you go? I didn't want to be alone. You shouldn't have left me alone. You're supposed to stay with me all the time. I can't stand to be alone. I feel so much better when you're here. When you're with me, I don't hear them anymore. When you're gone... Oh, I _hate_ it when you're gone. I wish you'd stay here forever."

Them?

"So long ago, when I was engaged to Natalia, I was so depressed. Those were the worst days of my life. I didn't understand what was wrong with me. I hated everything so much, you know, I was going to kill myself. I played roulette all the time, but somehow... I didn't die. I was never so unhappy. But then I made general, and everyone was afraid of me. I felt better then. I could do whatever I wanted. And I feel so much better now, that you're here. You're so pretty. I hate when it you're gone. I want you to stay with me."

Ivan shifted again, drawing himself up farther, reaching out and grabbing handfuls of the pillow to steady himself, and when he rested his head on top of Ludwig's, his heaviness constricting Ludwig's chest, and when he spoke again, voice eager and slurred, when he said _those_ words...

"I love you."

Too much. All too much.

His head was spinning and his heart was racing and he felt so _sick_ , and Ivan was so heavy above him and the smell of vodka was overwhelming and he could still feel the fuckin' gun in his forehead, and no one had ever said _those_ words to him except Gilbert. No one.

Something broke.

Digging his heels in the mattress and kicking his legs weakly, he tried to push up, and with the effort a great, dry sob escaped his throat, and Ivan pounced, sensing his weakness like he always did.

Dizziness.

"Shh, it's alright," Ivan whispered, once more lying down atop him, and before Ludwig could start bawling Ivan had kissed him again.

He couldn't move. He tasted vodka, as Ivan's tongue intruded against his own, and Ivan's fingers lowered to the buttons on his shirt and began to fumble with them, clumsily. A painful nip on his lip, and then half of the buttons were undone, and he still couldn't move.

Frozen.

He had been obedient before. Hadn't he given in? He had given in before. He hadn't moved. Why had Ivan pulled out the gun? Ludwig hadn't struggled, hadn't resisted, hadn't moved. Why? He had done as he was told.

Air was still gone, and his chest was ever constricting. Lightheadedness. Dots of light. He was on the verge of a panic attack.

No more pills.

Couldn't breathe.

His body woke up, and he struggled as best he could, to get that awful pressure off of him because he couldn't breathe and couldn't think and was about to cry or pass out. Ivan didn't seem to notice, or didn't care, and pressed forward harder, and now his hands flew up to his own shirt, unbuttoning it quickly, although he never broke away from his bruising kiss. And then suddenly he tottered, unsteadily, and for a second, the pressure on his arm slackened as Ivan sought to regain his balance.

It was only a second. It was enough.

Reacting quickly, Ludwig managed to break an arm free from beneath him, and then, without thinking, he did something _stupid_ , something that he should have _never_ done :

He pulled it back, curled his fingers, and slapped Ivan as hard as he could across the face; his fear of Ivan prevented him from clenching his fist all the way and punching.

He shouldn't have done it, shouldn't have done it, but oh god, he could not bear the feel of Ivan above him, that inescapable warmth and the smell of vodka, and the feel of steel. He couldn't stand it, as the nausea of fear still churned in his stomach. As death's cold hand still lingered above him. Couldn't fuckin' breathe, Ivan's weight stifling him.

The sharp slap seemed loud and ominous in the room.

The gun was still on the floor.

Everything went quiet, and Ivan stared down at him with a look of complete and utter astonishment. As if the slap had knocked the drunkenness right out of him, because his eyes were focused and sharp again. Hair sticking up, stubble gleaming, shirt unbuttoned, looking somehow more frightening then than he was when in uniform.

Dumbly, Ludwig noticed the dark scar on Ivan's chest beneath the hair.

Ludwig could hear his heart hammering. A moment of immobility. Pounding in his ears. No air. Please, please, just get off of him so he could _breathe_ , that was all he wanted, just that, that was why he had lashed out, because he was getting woozy, dizzy, from lack of oxygen. Just wanted Ivan to get off of him.

Ivan's cheek was red.

Irina had gotten away with it—

A creep of dread came over him. The storm was back in Ivan's eyes. Ivan came out of his stupor with a vengeance. He pulled his arm back too, but he didn't slap; he _punched_.

Hard.

Ivan's fist connected with stunning force, and for a moment, Ludwig could only stare up dumbly, head aching as Ivan pounced again, but this time in anger.

He tasted blood.

Dazed.

" _What_?" Ivan hissed, pushing his forearm against Ludwig's neck with such force that blood flow was cut off, "What is it now? Huh? What is it _now_? What's wrong with you? What is it with you? What more do you want of me? What else do I have to say to you? Haven't I told you everything you want to hear? Haven't I? Haven't I done everything you wanted? Why'd you hit me, huh? Have I ever hit _you_? Huh? Why'd you _hit_ me?"

Ivan shook him, violently, then his arm withdrew and blood flow returned, his fist was up in the air again, and Ludwig squinted his eyes shut in preparation for the next blow, chest ever tightening.

It never came.

Blood trickled from his nose and down his neck.

After seconds of nothing, Ludwig finally dared himself to open his eyes, and when he looked up, Ivan was staring down at him with a rather disappointed expression, almost expectant in some way, as though Ivan had had some kind of idea that something like this would eventually happen. His eyes were suddenly cool and guarded. Only tranquility.

It scared Ludwig, more than anything, how quickly Ivan could pass in and out of rage. How calculated and deceiving his façade of complete calm was. Or was it how calculated and deceiving his façade of rage was? It was hard to tell. Couldn't tell when Ivan was really angry or when he just wanted to scare Ludwig into compliance. Couldn't tell, and that was worse. Had to be on his toes every second.

Ivan reached out, and traced his finger down Ludwig's split lip, and whispered, "It's alright. It's alright. You were wrong to hit me, but it's alright. I'm not angry anymore." He smiled, as if to prove it, and grabbed Ludwig's collar, pulling him upright and then onto his feet with gentle hands, coaxing, "Here, here, you're alright. You're alright! Oh, I didn't mean to hit you. Look what you made me do." He balled his fist and wiped the blood from Ludwig's chin, from his nose, and he leaned in, adding, "I forgive you, I do. It's alright."

Wait.

Ludwig could only stare ahead dumbly as Ivan began to pull him unsteadily towards the door. Who was it that had been in the wrong? His head hurt, from the excitement and the punch. Maybe he was confused. Maybe Ivan had never really been angry in the first place.

Ivan's hand was firm and warm on his own as he dragged him out the door and then down the halls, and he spoke the entire time.

"I forgive you. You're still new around here, aren't you? I forget sometimes. You just don't know all of the rules, maybe, but that's alright. You'll have them down. Soon. But, oh, I didn't mean to hit you. But you hit me first, you understand? I would never hit you, otherwise, just because. I wouldn't ever hit you for no reason, you know. You hit me first."

A twisting of halls. A staircase. Ivan pulled him up. Where were they going?

...he _had_ hit Ivan first. Ivan had only retaliated. And that was only fair. Ivan never seemed to hurt him, come to think, until Ludwig had lashed out at him. Ivan had never hit him before, after all.

Another staircase.

He shouldn't have left Ivan alone. His fault.

They stopped before a white door, and he realized, blearily, that he was up in that rounded portion he had seen from the ground earlier. The tower, so to speak.

Ivan pulled him into his chest suddenly, in a crushing embrace, and his voice seemed almost regretful as he muttered in his ear, "I've got to leave you alone for a while, like you left me. But don't worry, I'll make sure that nothing bad happens to you. I'll keep you safe. Even when I'm gone."

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a set of keys, and then the door was unlocked, and Ivan pulled it open. Taking Ludwig's hand, he pulled him inside, and the light was far too bright.

Everything was white.

His head was pounding. He was too stunned to even think, let alone move.

Ivan led him to the center of the circular room, and then, with a swift kiss to his forehead, he began to back away. Ludwig could only watch him through squinted eyes, as he fell back closer and closer to the door, and then suddenly Ivan's eyes were boring into his own.

"Don't be scared if you hear things," Ivan suddenly whispered, and the look in his eyes was absolutely indescribable, and it frightened Ludwig, how damn strange Ivan's eyes had become.

"What do you mean?" he finally asked, voice still too thick from his fight with tears, and Ivan smiled, breathlessly.

"Voices. Don't you ever hear voices? When you're alone? Just don't let them scare you. Remember, I'll be on the outside, waiting. I'll protect you, in the end. I'm the only one that will protect you."

He shuddered, and then Ivan backed inside the frame, and the light was _so_ bright. Blinding. Everything was white.

"Where are you going?"

Ivan was going to leave him alone again. Why did everyone end up leaving him alone when he needed them the most?

"I have to go. I have to leave you, just for a while."

First Gilbert.

"Don't be scared."

Then Toris.

"I'll keep you safe."

And now Ivan.

"I'll come back for you. I swear. I'll come back. I'll come back."

But Ivan didn't say _when_ , and then he was gripping the handle in his hand. Ludwig could only stand there in the center of the excruciatingly bright room, arms loose at his sides, shoulders slumped in defeat. Oh, Ivan. Didn't want Ivan to go. Didn't want to be alone.

Everything was white. The door slammed shut. It didn't open again.

...everyone left him. It was his fault. He shouldn't have left Ivan alone. Shouldn't have hit him. Shouldn't have panicked.

Everything was white.

It was his fault.

There was something wrong with him.


	22. Butterfly Room

**Chapter 22**

**Butterfly Room**

White.

The first day wasn't so bad.

His head ached from the unrelenting light, and it was cold and the air was stale, but it wasn't so bad. It was almost _nice_ , actually, to be able to be alone for a while. To finally have some space. To relax a little.

Ludwig spent the first day pacing around, hands in his pockets, squinting in the light, and he was glad that he had some time to think. To be able to walk around without someone holding his hand and whispering in his ear.

The circular room wasn't that big. The size of a large bedroom, maybe, and everything was white. The walls were painted white. The smooth stone floor was white. The ceiling was white. The sealed door was white. There was no doorknob. The endless walls were corner-less, preventing shadows from playing. There was a very small sink, painted white, on the right of the door. And there was one very small window, no bigger than a shoebox. Iron bars (white) stood before it, and behind, a pane of glass. And he didn't understand _why_ , because behind the small rectangle of glass there were only cinderblocks. Painted white.

What was the point of a window at all, if the outside world was not visible?

White.

The hours passed by, slowly, and he couldn't tell what time of day it was, for the constant light. No fresh air could get in past the sealed door, and there was no heat. It was cold, and when he felt his strength waning, he sat down on the hard floor, leaned against the wall, and tried to sleep. And he just knew, as he buried his head in folded arms and drifted, that Ivan would come to get him soon, because in the morning he would wake up, sober, and maybe he wouldn't even remember any of Ludwig's mistakes at all. Ivan would come for him.

But he didn't.

Ludwig waited.

Most of the time, he slept. It was great to be able to sleep, as his body tried to recover from its near-death experience only two days earlier. He caught up on needed rest, and, anyway, the white hurt his eyes when he was awake. He waited for Ivan, when he woke up and couldn't get back to sleep.

Still, Ivan didn't come.

The headache started soon after.

But he would be strong.

The second day, if his guess was correct, was worse.

The hours ever slowed. The pain in his head was ever intensifying, and there were no colors for his eyes to distinguish. The white walls and white floors began to blur, and then there was just a great white haze, like he was walking around in a blizzard.

Strange, how a lack of color could play tricks on the mind.

Sometimes, when he found himself staring ahead, something began to shift. Sometimes, there were movements. Ripples in the white horizon. He closed his eyes, and put his palms above them, knowing that his brain was just tying to compensate because of the bright, monotonous surroundings. He was just hallucinating. That was normal in this kind of circumstance.

Right?

He tried to sleep as much as possible, if only so that he would not have to see the white, and by now, he no longer wanted his alone space. Didn't want to be alone anymore. He was over being able to think. The solitude had worn out its welcome. It had been enough. Where was Ivan? He should have come back by now. He wasn't still angry, was he? Surely not.

Ivan would come soon.

White.

Hours seemed like days. Days seemed like years. Never ending. The light was so bright. Relentless. Unforgiving. His eyes hurt from constantly squinting, and there was no way of telling what the hour was. It could have been morning. It could have been noon. It could have been the dead of night. Who knew? It was getting harder to sleep.

The white was starting to move around. When he buried his head in his arms now, sometimes he was certain that he heard someone whispering.

Maybe it was just Ivan.

And yet when he looked up, the door still stood closed. Ivan had not come for him yet.

He leaned his head back against the wall, and, to distract himself, thought back on memories. For whatever reason, it was hard to pull them up. He couldn't really think. His head felt muddled. Bleary.

When a memory finally did come to him, it wasn't really one that he wanted.

He remembered standing there in front of the university every day, staring at it, knowing that he could never set foot inside. Standing under the sun, watching students go in and out, and dreaming, dreaming, about how life would have been for him if his real parents had kept him. If he knew his real name. Who he really was. Standing out there in front of the university had been some of the loneliest days of his life. The most miserable.

...where was Ivan?

His head was throbbing. The hours passed. He tried to be strong. The ache behind his eyes was almost unbearable. He felt a little ill. Dizzy.

By the time the third day, or whatever it may have been, lurched in, Ludwig realized that he had overestimated himself when he had shrugged off Ivan's words so casually back in the car.

Because this _was_ torture. Felt so awful.

He could barely open his eyes, and he almost didn't want to, because when he did, the odd movements from before had become shapes. And sometimes when he glanced over, he could swear that there was someone walking. Someone was always whispering. Even though he knew he was alone.

Damn.

He rubbed at his eyes, but the rippling didn't stop. He shook his head, but they stayed. Maybe he had just been caught in a particularly vulnerable state. If Ivan had thrown him in here straight off, he was confident that he would have been able to ride it out. He could have stayed above the water. Not now. His confidence in himself had taken too great a blow. He had been so confused, so close to breaking, so close to having a panic attack, before he had been chucked in here.

Couldn't think.

Where was Ivan?

The hours passed, creeping by as years. Still, Ivan had not come for him. Goddammit. Why had he been so stupid? Hitting Ivan like that. This whole damn thing was his fault. Ivan didn't make mistakes. Should have known better. It was his fault. How did he always end up in these predicaments?

Oh god, it hurt his pride, it did, but he couldn't bear it, and when he finally managed to pull himself up to his feet, staggering over to the door against the blinding white, he threw himself against it, and knocked.

"Hey," he said, and his voice was deep and scratchy from disuse, "Hey, are you there? Ivan, come on. Open the door. Hey, Ivan, come on."

He waited, ear pressed into the door, but there was no sound. Nothing stirred. His desperation was growing. He wanted out. He couldn't stay here. He knocked again, louder.

"Ivan! Are you out there or what? Come _on_ , let me out already! I'm... I'm sorry. I am. Please. Let me out."

Still, there was nothing.

He lost his temper, and drew up his fists, slamming them down onto the door as hard as he could, because someone was whispering in his ear, and he had to get out _now_ , "Ivan! Open the goddamn door! Open the door! Ivan! I know you hear me! Let me _out_! Ivan! Open the fucking _DOOR_! Come on! _Please_!"

His voice nearly died from screaming, dry as it was, but it got him nowhere. There was no movement from outside, and he could only sink down against the door, pressing his palms against his ears as the whispering grew ever louder.

"Please."

Christ.

Don't be scared. That was what Ivan had said. Just don't listen. It was _hard._ Hard to ignore it.

Then, as his fists ached from the contact with the door, he recalled a sudden memory that had long since been forgotten.

It came out of nowhere.

He had been fourteen. Maybe he had been foolhardy, or maybe he had just been a dreamer like Toris, but when Gilbert had pulled on his coat, ready to go into the city, already wild-haired and sloppy from alcohol, Ludwig had tried to reach out and grab a hold of him to prevent him from leaving. Gilbert _always_ went out, always. Couldn't he have just spent one night at home? Couldn't they ever just sit there, together?

Gilbert's temper was unpredictable at best, and when Ludwig had reached out and grabbed his coat, he had whirled around like a viper, and had shoved Ludwig backwards so hard that he had fallen, throwing his arms out backwards at the last second to save his head from hitting the floor. Gilbert had stared down at him, and had looked horrified. He'd extended a hand. Ludwig, hurt and angry, had slapped it away and pulled himself up, shouting at Gilbert to just fuckin' _go_ already.

Just leave.

Gilbert was gone, leaving him alone, with only throbbing wrists and a bruised arm for company.

_He hardly even remembers you now._

Gilbert hadn't come back until dawn.

...he hadn't thought of that in years. Why now?

The static was growing louder.

Gilbert.

Gilbert was supposed to protect him. That's what big brothers were for.

The hours passed.

And yet...

It was so easy to remember all the great times between him and Gilbert. It was easy to remember the nights when he had been a child, and Gilbert had held him close in bed and told him stories. It was easy to remember Gilbert's hands, when they had ran through his hair or caressed his cheek or grabbed his hand. It was easy to remember Gilbert's smooth voice, confident and sure and adoring, as it had whispered in his ear and told him, over and over, how much he loved him, and how they would always be together, forever. It was easy to remember Gilbert's eyes, bright and expressive and easy-going, and how they always followed him protectively no matter where he went. And it was easy to remember Gilbert's presence, always hovering over him, surrounding him with the support and the care and the encouragement he needed to thrive.

_What kind of brother is that?_

He had tried so hard not to remember the _other_ things.

It was easy to remember how much he loved Gilbert. It was even easier to try and forget how much he had _hated_ him sometimes.

So why, now, was he thinking of these things? Oh, god. He had tried to forget.

Why was he suddenly remembering all of the _terrible_ times between him and Gilbert? Why was he remembering the nights when he had sat up by the window, watching and waiting for Gilbert to come staggering home? Why was he remembering Gilbert's hands, when they had lashed out at him in random moments of anger and drunkenness, pulling at his hair and slapping his cheek and shoving at his chest when they had fought? Why was he remembering Gilbert's voice, loud and harsh and spiteful, when it had screamed at him in fits of rage and told him how useless he was, and how he didn't understand _anything_? Why was he remembering Gilbert's eyes, dark and angry and wrathful, and how they had stared him down when they argued? Why was he remembering Gilbert's presence, overwhelming him, dragging him down with so many problems and so much stress and never any rest?

Gilbert would always be his big brother.

But that didn't erase the nights when Gilbert had come home drunk, or high, or both, when he had flown into rages and fits, when he had domineered and controlled.

It didn't erase the time that he had brought a girl that he had met on the street home when he had been thirteen, just because she had been nice to him and he had never had friends, and Gilbert had been so furious and so _jealous_ that he had promptly kicked her out and slammed the door in her face, screaming at her so terribly that she had run home crying.

It didn't erase the time that he and Roderich had been talking on the phone, and Gilbert had heard Roderich ask if he would like to come up and stay with him for a while, and Gilbert ripped the cord right out of the wall and had thrown his drink into Ludwig's face, accusing him of going behind his back and _betraying_ him and that Ludwig didn't _really_ love him, not really, if he was still speaking to Roderich.

Gilbert.

Oh, god, he didn't want to remember all of this. Gilbert couldn't help it. There was something wrong up in his head, always had been. Gilbert couldn't help it.

That didn't make it hurt any less.

Digging his heels into the stone floor, Ludwig squinted his eyes shut, and then Gilbert was whispering in his ear, and he shook his head to clear it.

Why was _he_ here? He didn't want to speak to Gilbert right now. Not in the mood.

Fuckin' Gilbert.

' _Ludwig, look what you've gotten yourself into now_!'

"It's your fault," he grumbled, grabbing handfuls of his hair, and Gilbert laughed, coarsely.

' _Oh, man, I shoulda known that you can't take care of yourself. See, I always have to protect you. Just look where you're at now. I told you._ '

"It's your _fault_ ," he repeated, more forcefully, and now suddenly the pain in his head was enhanced by a rush of anger.

It was Gilbert's fault that he was here in the first place. Stupid, stupid Gilbert. Reckless. Without Gilbert, he'd be sitting back in West Germany right now, with Roderich and Alfred, where he damn well belonged.

' _You can't do anything without me. I'm your big brother, remember?_ '

...he had been sixteen, and in the heat of an argument he had told Gilbert that he was a _terrible_ brother, that _he_ was the one who could never do anything right, and Gilbert had stood still for a moment, chest heaving in fury, and then he had drawn back his hand and punched Ludwig across the face, and when Ludwig had fallen Gilbert had burst into tears.

He had been seventeen the first time he had hit Gilbert back.

The day he had moved out.

Gilbert had been so angry, screaming about how the whole thing was Roderich's fault, that they would be better off if Roderich were dead. And those words had been too much, because Roderich meant _so_ much to him. So much.

'It's not his fault!' Ludwig had said, and Gilbert had just kept on.

Saying awful things about Roderich. Roderich had been his idol, as much as Gilbert had been his brother. It had been too much, and he had been hurting too, at the thought of leaving Gilbert for the first time. They were supposed to be together forever, but Gilbert was too much sometimes.

Ludwig couldn't help it; he had turned around, and punched Gilbert in the nose. As Gilbert had laid there on the floor, blood spilling between his fingers and in shock, Ludwig had grabbed his things and stalked out. He and Gilbert hadn't spoken for months after that.

Gilbert's voice was getting louder.

' _If you could just listen to me, none of this would have happened. You don't ever listen_.'

That jerk. That arrogant, presumptuous, self-centered _jerk_.

He had done all of this for Gilbert. Because Gilbert was the one who couldn't ever listen. He had surrendered himself, for Gilbert's sake. Because Gilbert was the one who couldn't take care of himself.

Gilbert didn't know anything.

"Gilbert," he spat, as he threw his hands up again to cover his ears, kicking his legs irritably, "Go away! Go _away_! I'm so—I'm so _angry_ with you right now! Oh, god, Gilbert, go away! Shut up, I can't _stand_ to hear you right now!"

And for a second, Gilbert's voice died down, just a little, and Ludwig just wished that Ivan would come and get him and take him out of this nightmare. He had not wanted to disturb memories that had been buried for years.

The burning spite in his chest was painful.

At least Ivan did everything right. Ivan never made mistakes. Gilbert made so many there was no possible way to count them all. At least Ivan didn't pick fights with him. Gilbert took everything so personally. At least Ivan had never hit him before that night. But Gilbert had, on several occasions.

Their relationship had always been volatile. To say the least.

One minute Gilbert would grab his waist and pull him in and kiss his cheek and croon words of brotherly affection, and then the next he was angry again, thinking that the world was conspiring against him and that nobody understood him and that he was better than everyone, and that Ludwig could never have anyone else in his life because Gilbert was the only one that was good enough to be around him.

_Oh._ Where was Ivan?

He had thought he would welcome Gilbert, but now Ludwig just wanted him gone.

Where was Ivan?

Gilbert's voice was back, louder than ever, and now Ludwig was so irritated that he could feel his heart pounding in anger in his chest, and he drew back his fist, slamming it into the wall as he shrieked, "Gilbert, go _AWAY_!"

There was short silence.

He squinted his eyes. Whispers in his ear.

And then the light went out.

The sun above died, and everything was cast into night. The light went out. The whispers stopped, and the pitch-black and the sound of silence was so beautiful that he fell forward, collapsed onto the floor, and slipped into unconsciousness.

The hours passed.

His headache subsided, if only a little. He laid on the cold floor, and slept. He lost track of the days.

The dark had been appreciated at first, much like the solitude had, but it quickly wore out its welcome. The bright light of before had hurt his eyes, but at least he could see.

Now, as he pulled himself to his feet, he could not see a thing, not a thing, even if he waved his fingers before his face there was nothing. He reached out, blindly, staggering here and there are he tried to figure out his surroundings, and his head hurt worse than ever.

The darkness was suffocating. Maybe worse than the light.

When he found the wall, he leaned against it, and even though it was cold, he reached down and clumsily took off his boots and his socks, if only because he needed to feel where he was going, and it helped him gather his bearings more easily when he was barefoot. His shirt was still half-unbuttoned from Ivan's earlier attempts at laying hands on him. He hadn't even considered buttoning it back up.

Ivan might get angry again.

Only darkness.

He was hungry. His chest hurt.

Time passed.

Then, after who knew how many days, he started seeing things again. Only this time, in the dark, they were excruciatingly clear. Times past.

He looked up at one point, and saw himself.

As he was before, standing there in clean clothes, hair whipping in the wind, staring up at the university. Oh, what he would have given back then, to be a part of it. He had idolized Roderich, and had wanted nothing more in the world to follow in his footsteps and become an ambassador. But he couldn't. He didn't even know who he was. What his name was. Where he had been born. Nothing. Where could he get in this world, with no identity?

Roderich, sensing his melancholy, had tried his best, and had taught him so much, everything about the world of diplomacy, and Ludwig had hung on his every word, drinking it in and wishing, above all else, that Roderich had really been his father. Why couldn't they have adopted him? Given him their name? It wasn't fair. Who could choose where they were born? How different his life would have been, had he truly been born to Roderich and Erzsébet.

Oh, right... He remembered.

Roderich _was_ going to adopt him, had said so, but Gilbert had done everything in his power to stop it.

If Gilbert hadn't gotten in the way, Roderich would have adopted him.

The darkness dragged on.

He tried to sleep, but failed, and when he opened his eyes again, suddenly everything was white. It didn't hurt his eyes this time, and when he stood up and tried to walk and bumped into a wall, he realized that he was just hallucinating again. Everything was still dark.

Not in his mind.

He walked around in circles, muttering to himself to fill the silence, and then, as he felt himself sinking deeper and deeper, he suddenly turned around, and realized he was not alone.

Gilbert had come to visit him.

Standing against the crackling white, silvery hair shining and eyes calm, he stood there with crossed arms, and for a moment, Ludwig could only stare at him, too disheartened to move. Gilbert wasn't real. He knew it. Even so, when Gilbert took a step forward and dropped his arms, his air loose and relaxed, Ludwig couldn't help it; he stumbled over to Gilbert, quickly, and took his hands.

Cold.

"I'm sorry I yelled at you earlier," he said, beseechingly, and Gilbert smiled.

Oh, thank god that at least Gilbert had come in one of those good moods. The way he was when Ludwig loved him. Gilbert was the best brother in the world when he was thinking straight. When he wasn't going crazy. When he wasn't drunk. When he wasn't high. When Gilbert was clear-headed, Ludwig loved him more than anything on earth.

' _It's alright_ ,' Gilbert said, casually, and shrugged a shoulder, ' _It's my fault_.'

Gilbert's hands were _cold_. And even though his body knew that there was nothing within his hands, his mind said that there was, and he could feel a strange numbness, a tingling almost, as they fought it out, but it was enough. Better than nothing.

' _Hey, West, sorry I hit you earlier! Oh, man, I didn't mean to. I swear I didn't mean to_.'

That was nothing new. Gilbert had always regretted his actions later on. Not that it stopped him from repeating them. But Ludwig was too tired to be angry, and he was so grateful not to be alone anymore. He had missed _this_ Gilbert. The good one.

Ivan still hadn't come for him.

Gilbert fell in and pressed his cold forehead against Ludwig's, hands resting on the back of his neck, and for a minute, he could swear that he was back in Berlin, and that all of this had just been a bad dream.

He missed Gilbert.

' _See? I told you we'd always be together forever._ '

A dream? Was he dreaming?

His head hurt, that much was certain. He felt confused, even as Gilbert's thumbs ran over his skin in circular motions.

Had Ivan not been real, then? Ivan's warm hands.

' _I'll always be around to protect you. No matter what_.'

It hadn't been a dream.

...maybe he was crazy.

Gilbert wasn't real. Ivan was. Why hadn't Ivan come back for him yet?

Gilbert was whispering. He listened.

' _Ludwig, I love you. But I'm so mad at you, you know. How could you? You know that we're supposed to be together forever! How could you? He tried to kill me, and you held his hand_.'

For a second, he bowed his head in shame, and it was true. Maybe he had betrayed Gilbert. Betrayed Gilbert by letting Ivan run his fingers through his hair, and say those words to him when no one else should, by letting Ivan pull him in, by letting Ivan press him down into the bed, by giving in. But it wasn't his fault.

It wasn't his fault.

Ivan was so overwhelming. He had no control here. And it was almost entrancing, to no longer be in control. For someone else to make all the decisions. When it really came down to it, Ludwig was weak, always had been, and Ivan knew it. He couldn't fight off someone like Ivan.

"I'm sorry Gilbert. I couldn't help it."

He was no match for Ivan.

Gilbert had backed away, shaking his head, and the disappointment in his eyes was almost too much to bear.

' _How could you_?'

He was weak.

"I'm sorry."

'... _oh, it's alright. I still love you. I always will_.'

He wanted to burst into tears.

It _hurt_ , to love Gilbert so much and still sometimes hate him. Conflicting, and confusing. He loved Gilbert. Why couldn't things ever work out for them?

_'You still love me too, right_?'

He nodded his head, fervently.

"Oh, of course I do, Gilbert. I really do."

_'I'm glad. Let's not fight anymore_.'

All he wanted.

If Gilbert would just stop drinking.

...he had been fifteen, and had decided to track Gilbert down through the vast city. Poking his head in and out of bar after bar, he had finally found him after hours, and had gone inside, where Gilbert was slumped up in a corner, laughing with some woman and staggering in drunkenness. Ludwig had slunk inside and snuck over to him, trying not to be seen as he wound through the rowdy crowd.

He had finally gotten over to Gilbert and grabbed his arm, hissing, 'Let's go home!'

Gilbert had squinted over at him, and then smiled, as he had cried, in a slur, 'Ludwig! Look at you! Never thought I'd see ya in _here_!' He had laughed, and when Ludwig had tried to pull him away, he had stood his ground.

Then he had reversed the tables, and with one yank, it had been Gilbert who was dragging Ludwig, into a dark corner.

Ludwig could smell the alcohol on Gilbert's breath as he had pinned him against the wall, heavy against his chest, and there had been a smile on Gilbert's face as he had leaned in and whispered, 'I'm glad you came out. Let's have some fun together, eh? You're old enough.'

It had scared him a little, then, the way Gilbert's hand had grabbed his jaw, the way Gilbert's lips had brushed against his own as he said, 'Open up.'

In his hand, he had held a little piece of paper.

Ludwig remembered feeling so helpless, and so _trapped_ , as Gilbert had tried very hard to coax him into opening his mouth so that he could put the paper under his tongue.

'Come on, it's alright! It's just a little bit. Your tongue gets a little numb, that's all.'

He remembered the way his heart had raced as Gilbert's hand had run up and down his neck, whispering in his ear in a soothing, adoring manner, and he remembered, more than anything else, that he had very nearly _done_ it. He had almost opened his mouth.

He had just wanted Gilbert to be proud of him. More than anything.

But in the end, drunk and high Gilbert had staggered, and Ludwig had used the opportunity to slip out from beneath him and drag him off. Gilbert didn't remember any of it the next day. Maybe that was for the best. Gilbert wasn't himself when he was intoxicated.

All that mattered was that Gilbert loved him.

_'Come back home, Ludwig. I miss you_.'

He looked up.

Gilbert flickered, as though he were suddenly standing behind a shield of static, and then somehow he was at Ludwig's side, whispering words in his ear that he could not quite grasp.

Someone else was here now. He could feel it.

More static.

' _Ludwig, look_.'

He squinted his eyes and, standing there where Gilbert had been, there was Toris. Toris, who always left him when Ludwig needed him the most. Toris, who he both feared and admired. Toris was here now. Guess that was enough.

Toris stood there, a bit pale and dressed in white and smiling, the dark circles visible under his eyes, his hair messy and loose and uncombed, unshaved, somehow looking worse than Ludwig had ever seen him and yet at the same time more handsome, and he waved a hand, beckoning Ludwig over _. 'Ludwig, come here.'_

Toris.

Ludwig was glad. He felt better when Toris was with him, even though Toris always ended up snapping at him. Felt less lost.

He took a step.

' _Look_!'

Toris held up his hands. Blood was dripping everywhere.

Shivering, Ludwig watched with a lurid fascination as Toris walked over to the tiny window. He reached his hands out through the iron bars, laying his bloody palms on the pane of glass.

' _I broke the glass_ ,' Toris said, and Ludwig braced his feet and stumbled over, groping blindly through the dark, even though the images in his head were a burning, blinding white, and when he felt the bars, he gripped them.

Toris turned to him, and when he looked over too, Toris' nose rested against his cheek. He was cold.

He felt better when Toris was with him.

A shatter.

Gilbert watched silently from behind.

Ludwig looked down, and then suddenly there was a shard of glass in Toris' hands, and he raised it up, and with one great blow he stabbed it into the cinder blocks that shielded the window from the outside world. He did it again, and again, and the glass buried itself into his palms; a spurt of liquid shot out and fell onto Ludwig's face.

Blood everywhere.

Toris struck once more, and then fell still. The blocks stood strong.

' _I tried to dig through the wall_ ,' Toris whispered, and now he threw the shard down on the floor and reached up, his shredded, bleeding palms cupping Ludwig's face. ' _Anything to see outside. To see color_.'

And then Toris pulled back, and Ludwig could only watch as Toris walked over to the glimmering white wall and put his hands against it. Then he stepped to the side, and slid his palms against the white, leaving streaks of dark red and small pieces of flesh. He walked until he had circled the entire room, and then he turned, arms in the air as he met Ludwig's wide eyes.

A circle of red.

_'See? Color. I beat it. I beat it. I won. He tried to get me, but I won.'_

Toris fell to his knees, and held out his hands. Ludwig didn't waste the chance and fell too, crawling over to him, because he missed Toris, missed Gilbert, missed the world, and Toris gripped Ludwig's hands within his own. Toris was so damn cold, despite the blood running down his arms. He leaned in, pressing his forehead into Ludwig's just like Gilbert had, and Ludwig closed his eyes as Toris' weak, static voice filled his ears.

' _Don't look. Don't look. Just close your eyes. Don't look. Don't look_ — _'_

A blinding pain in his hand. A shatter of glass.

He opened his eyes.

Toris was gone. Gilbert was gone. He was alone, in the dark, and in his delirium he had reached through the bars, just like Toris, and had shattered the glass with his fist.

He could feel blood dripping down his hand.

_Don't look. Don't look._

He groped around, and took up a shard in his hand. But he didn't take it to the cinder blocks as Toris had; gripping it tightly, he pulled it back, and it was with a smile that he staggered backwards and fell against the wall, clutching the shard in his hands and holding it to his chest. Everyone was gone. Didn't want to be alone. Felt good to have something in his hands. Anything at all.

_Don't look._

Oh god, oh god, oh god, where was everyone? Where was everyone? Where had Toris gone? Why had Gilbert left him? When would Ivan come back?

He was alone.

When would Ivan come back? Ivan. Where was Ivan? Ivan. Oh, god—

Wanted _Ivan_. He sat there for hours, in the dark, and he wondered if Ivan had forgiven him yet. How much longer before Ivan wasn't angry anymore? He hadn't meant to hit him. It had just happened.

He slept, fitfully, and never for a second did he let go of the glass. He needed to have something in his hands.

Darkness. His head was on fire.

Hours and days and years passed, and a noise suddenly startled him from his sleep.

The shard was digging into his palms, and he looked up, wearily, and then suddenly everything was white again, and someone else was kneeling before him. He squinted his eyes to focus, and smiled, eagerly. Oh!

"Alfred."

His best friend. The first person to ever _see_ him.

It was Alfred, crouched in front of him, palm resting against the wall to support his weight as he hovered above Ludwig, golden hair alight and eyes nearly silver in the bright white, and he was dressed in white, too. His glasses were gone.

Missed Alfred so much, so much, couldn't even stand it.

Alfred wasn't smiling this time.

' _Oh, Ludwig. How could you? Red. It's all red._ '

Alfred's eyes bored painfully into his own, and Ludwig was ashamed of himself.

Red.

Alfred reached out, and ran hands down the fabric of his shirt, his brow stern. Ludwig looked down, and realized he was still in the Soviet uniform that Ivan had given him, and he could no longer meet Alfred's eyes for the shame. Alfred had told him, over and over again...

"I'm sorry," he moaned, and bowed his head, and Alfred's hands were suddenly around his own, and he raised them upward.

_'I told you, didn't I_?'

"Sorry."

Ludwig let Alfred lead his hands up and up, until they had reached the level of his collarbone.

The glass was still clutched in his grasp.

_'I told you that you had to be careful around them. They're dangerous_.'

A silence, as the edge of the glass came ever closer to his skin. He didn't notice, having eyes only for Alfred, wishing that he would just smile.

Please smile.

Alfred's smile was so comforting, always had been from the moment Ludwig had laid eyes upon it. Was Alfred so angry now that he couldn't smile? Did he hate this uniform so that he couldn't just sit down and loop their arms together and rest his head on Ludwig's shoulder as he had done so many times before? Couldn't Alfred look past this? Ludwig would have looked past anything at all for Alfred. There was nothing on earth Alfred could have ever done that would have turned Ludwig against him. Ludwig loved Alfred, would have died for him, and had always thought that Alfred felt the same.

Ludwig's hands were trembling when he finally whispered, beseechingly, "I know. I know. Better... Better dead than Red. Right? I'm sorry. I tried not to. I really did. Please, don't hate me. I— You're my best friend. Please."

He had tried so hard.

Alfred finally smiled at him then, that friendly, easy smile that he had missed, and slowly he began to push Ludwig's hands backward. Ludwig was caught under his gaze.

The shard of glass pricked the skin of his chest.

A drop of red.

' _It'll be easier_ ,' Alfred whispered, and pushed the glass again, ' _It'll be easier this way. Trust me. Trust me. You have to trust me. A little more.'_

He trusted Alfred.

The prick turned into a warm throb. Alfred pushed his hands.

' _Come on! That's it! Just a little farther. I don't hate you. I just hate that color. Trust me_.'

He trusted Alfred with his life. Trusted Alfred with everything. He trusted Alfred, just because Alfred had _seen_ him. The first friend he had ever had in his life. The only friend. Trusted Alfred blindly.

The glass dug in deeper.

A terrible, burning pain, and Ludwig suddenly cried out as a flood of warmth ran down his chest, and then Alfred was gone. He looked down, dumbly, at the shard of glass sticking out from beneath his collar bone.

Aching.

A moment of confusion, and then he pulled it out. The blood spurted.

He held the shard of glass in his left hand, and covered the wound with his right.

Why? Why? Alfred had never tried to _hurt_ him before. Never.

He kicked out his legs, as the blood ran through his fingers, and he looked around. The blinding white was gone. Everything was dark again. Alfred had left him, like everyone else did. He couldn't stand being alone in the dark. He could smell the blood, heavy around him. Resting his head against the wall, he closed his eyes as his body began to tremble from the stress.

Exhaustion.

Oh, god, he was going crazy. He was going crazy.

_Crazy, crazy, crazy, crazy crazy crazycrazycrazy_.

Oh, god, he would never make Ivan angry again. Would spent the rest of his life doing everything to make Ivan happy, anything at all to never be in this room again. Anything Ivan wanted, he would do.

The hours passed. Everything was dark. He could feel himself getting weaker and weaker as the time went by, and with every second his thoughts were getting stranger. Darker.

He felt further away from himself than he had ever been.

And then Gilbert came back to see him again. This time, it was not as welcome as the last, and Gilbert was in one of _those_ moods. When Ludwig hated him.

The white light lit everything back up, and he pulled himself to his feet as Gilbert marched over to him, wild-eyed and shouting, and it was with a numb sense of lethargy that Ludwig kept his back to Gilbert. Anything to not engage him. Couldn't stand it when Gilbert screamed at him.

' _Where are you going? You turned your back on me, didn't you? First you left with Roderich_ —'

He didn't want to fight.

'— _and now you're out here, in Russia! Wearing that stupid fuckin' uniform! How could you? You left me, just to be with him? You think he's so great, huh? Do you? Are you stupid? You can't have anyone else, Ludwig! We're supposed to be together, remember? No one else will take care of you like I can. How could you? You look so stupid! You look so fuckin' stupid, you don't even know._ '

One hand over his chest and the other gripping the glass, Ludwig walked this way and that, and Gilbert followed him like a hound, reaching out every so often and shoving at his back.

Gilbert was always like this. Couldn't they ever just be normal?

"Leave me alone, Gilbert," he finally managed, but Gilbert didn't.

_'I raised you better than that, didn't I? What have I told you about them? Look at you! What are you wearing? So stupid.'_

"Go away."

' _You're no better than they are! You can't do anything right. You're so stupid! Traitor_.'

Traitor?

Oh—but he only wore this uniform for _Gilbert_. Why didn't Gilbert understand? It was all his fault. He had put this stupid uniform on so that Gilbert would be safe. Had given up everything for Gilbert.

"Gilbert, go away."

He clenched the glass in his hand, his patience waning.

' _You know what he wants, don't you? He'll fuck around with you for a little while, and then what? He'll shoot you_.'

Ludwig closed his eyes, shoulders slumped as he shook his head stubbornly.

Gilbert didn't understand. He never had. How could Gilbert have ever understood Ivan?

"He's not like that. He won't hurt me."

' _You're out here, for what? To be his whore? Is that all you are? You don't ever listen to me! You don't know anything about the world! You never did. You're nothing to him. Don't you get it? Think about it! Why would he ever want you for anything other than that? Who ever would? No one could ever love you, except for me. Ah, hell! What do I care?_ '

What did Gilbert know?

How could he know anything about the world if Gilbert was always hovering over him? If Gilbert never let him out of his sight? If Gilbert was always so possessive. Obsessed.

Something had never been right up in Gilbert's head.

"Leave me alone! I'm so tired of you, Gilbert. Just leave me alone."

_'You got yourself out here. So what! You did this to yourself! See what I care! Let him fuck ya, then, and see what I care! You're nothing to him. He doesn't love you. How stupid are you?'_

No, no, that wasn't right. Ivan had said _those_ words, hadn't he? Ivan wasn't like that. Ivan had said that he wanted him to stay, and no one had ever said that. If all Ivan wanted was _that_ , he could have already had it by force. Hadn't. Hadn't hurt him.

Oh, god, his head hurt so badly.

"You don't know anything about it," he spat, and now he was shaking, and Gilbert was behind him, so close that he feel him, but he just kept _on_.

Sometimes...

He hated Gilbert.

' _You're so stupid, Ludwig! He doesn't love you, you're so stupid_!'

" _Shut up_!" he screeched, and without thinking, he gripped the glass in his hand and whirled around, aiming for Gilbert, too angry to consider the possible consequences of his actions. He had never been so angry.

So _angry_.

Fuckin' Gilbert never let him _be_ , even after he was gone. Never let him go. He was so sick of Gilbert. He was so tired of only living for Gilbert. Gilbert always had to kick him when he was already down and out.

Hated Gilbert.

He swung. The glass gleamed in the bright light.

But nothing happened. The glass passed right through Gilbert's neck, and he flickered again like static, and only shook his head.

' _Look at you_.'

It struck Ludwig like lightning, what he had done—what he _could_ have done—and the glass fell from his fingers as he began to tremble. Oh, no. Oh, Christ, if Gilbert had been real he would have _killed_ him. He would have murdered his own brother. He would have become everything he hated. He would have fuckin' killed him.

He had never known that he was capable of this. Something like this.

' _Look at you. Who are you? You're so stupid_.'

Ludwig fell to his knees, and moaned, "I'm sorry!"

Who was he? He didn't know sometimes. Couldn't ever think.

"I'm sorry, Gilbert, I'm _sorry_!"

Too late.

Gilbert had left him. It was dark again. Oh, god, what had he done? He had the potential within him to be everything Ivan was. He would have killed Gilbert. Was this who he really was? So many things had been coming out of him lately. Didn't recognize himself anymore. Was this who he really was, what he had been born to be?

His parents—hadn't ever known them.

Where was Ivan? Had these things been there within him all along? Ivan brought out the worst in him.

...or maybe it was Gilbert who brought out the worst in him.

If they could just stop fighting.

...he had been ten, and Gilbert had held a bottle of alcohol in his hand. Ludwig had stepped into the room, and when Gilbert had seen him, he had set the bottle down, looking a little abashed. And then Gilbert had called him over, and he had crawled into Gilbert's lap, reaching up to play with his hair as Gilbert arched his neck up to kiss him upon the nose.

'You know what?' he had said, and Ludwig had looked into his eyes when Gilbert grabbed his chin. 'When my mom and dad died, I started drinkin' this stuff. But now that you're here, I feel a lot better.' Gilbert had kissed him again, and added, 'I'm tryin' to stop. I think I can, with you here. I really love you, kiddo. You're all I've got. I'd do anything for you. I'm trying to be better.'

And Gilbert had tried his best to stop. He just hadn't been able to. After a while, he had just given up.

His throat was dry.

How long had he been here? Weeks? Months? Years? Had Ivan forgotten him? Maybe Ivan didn't really love him, like Gilbert said. It had been so nice, hearing Ivan saying all those things, because no one else ever had. Ivan had said so many things, so many things, and Ludwig had started believing it, he really had.

Just wanted someone to love him. He had loved everyone in his life unconditionally, because he was so grateful to them for ever being with him in the first place. He had never felt worth it, had never understood why anyone would ever want to love him, and for that he was always so uncertain about how everyone truly felt about him. Loved them all, but was so scared that they didn't really love him back. Not really. That they just pitied him.

He was alone again.

He fell forward, pressing his face into the floor as he whispered to himself just to fill the silence, and the hours passed and passed and passed, and it occurred to him that maybe the glass had passed right through Gilbert because Gilbert was real, and maybe he wasn't. Maybe Gilbert was locked in this room, and _he_ was just a hallucination. Maybe he had died, and Gilbert was seeing him as a ghost.

Maybe.

He was cold. He was alone. He didn't want to be alone anymore. If only Ivan would come back.

He was falling again.

His mind felt like it was struggling through a thick fog. It was getting harder to breathe. The air was stale. And right when he could feel himself starting to slip down again, Roderich and Erzsébet came to visit him.

Oh, thank god! He was so lonely.

A hand on his arm.

He needed someone. Anyone.

' _Come on, Ludwig, get up_ ,' Roderich whispered in his ear, and then Roderich pulled him upright onto his knees. Ludwig looked up, and _oh_ , Roderich's face was so damn beautiful, lit up by the white lights and smiling down at him. The closest thing he had ever had to a father. Roderich had been his hero. Idol.

Roderich had been close to everything.

He reached out and wrapped his arms around Roderich's waist, burying his face into his shirt and nearly bursting into tears as he clenched fistfuls of fabric. Roderich placed a hand on his head, like he had so many years ago, and then someone else said, at his ear, ' _Look at you, Ludwig! You're so pale_!'

He looked over, and Erzsébet was beside him, on her knees, and their noses touched. Roderich reached out his other hand and rested it on the top of her head, and Ludwig was suddenly eight years old again, lost and cold and alone on the streets. Roderich and Erzsébet had come to his rescue again. Like they had before.

He smiled as Erzsébet lifted up and kissed his damp forehead.

His parents. They had been his parents.

' _Let go, Ludwig. Just let go.'_

Roderich ran his fingers through his hair.

' _It's alright. To just go to sleep. Close your eyes. Look at you, you're so tired_.'

He was, _so_ tired, so tired, and he closed his eyes and held on to them for dear life, and they were warm and close and loving, and oh _god_ weren't they real? Was he real?

Ha.

He remembered.

He had always wondered why Gilbert had never let him go a real school. Why he had to be homeschooled. But he had given it his all anyway, and had let Gilbert sit there on the floor with him and help him with his homework, and then mail the tests off. The papers came back days later, fully marked and edited.

Gilbert had always smiled at him, and said, 'You're so smart!'

He had done the work dutifully. Years later, when he was fifteen, he had learned the truth.

The 'teacher' that had marked his tests? Roderich.

They had just wanted him to feel like a normal kid.

Ludwig had gone to Roderich and sat down before him, and asked him why. Roderich had just looked so _sad_. He had tried to explain to Ludwig that he had had little recourse. With no birth certificate, no papers, no name. What else could they have done? Roderich had tried so hard, and surely, as powerful as Roderich was, he could have done more, but Gilbert always seemed to get in the way. Roderich had wanted to adopt him, but Gilbert's fury always stopped every venture short. Roderich, for whatever reason, hadn't used the full force of his powers to get around Gilbert.

Ludwig remembered that first day he had moved out, after that awful fight with Gilbert, when Roderich and Erzsébet had helped him settle into his first apartment.

Roderich had been beaming the whole time.

'I'm so proud of you,' Roderich had said, and Ludwig hadn't understood then _why_. What had there been to be proud of? He couldn't have done it alone. The apartment was in Roderich's name. Roderich paid the bills. Roderich had done everything.

Ludwig had just stood there, as Roderich placed a heavy hand on his shoulder, and he had just wanted to cry. Why be proud of him? He wasn't anyone. No one. Nobody.

He was nobody.

In his own country, and still very much alien.

Ludwig had finally said as much that day, still upset over hitting Gilbert for that first time, as he bowed his head and moaned, miserably, 'Why do you do all of this for me? I'm not anything to you. You don't even know who I am. How could you ever be proud of me? I'm nobody.'

And it was true, but Roderich had grabbed his arm all the same, and had shaken Ludwig so that he would look up.

He couldn't ever remember seeing Roderich looking so stern and yet somehow so vulnerable, and his eyes had glistened behind his glasses as he had said, in a very strict, if not thick, voice, 'You're not nobody. Don't ever say that. Ever. I love you, and I'm proud of you, because... Because you're the only son I'll ever have.'

Roderich had hugged him. Ludwig _had_ cried then. All he had ever wanted was a real family.

He was _so_ tired.

Roderich's fingers ran through his hair.

That apartment was gone. He was in this little room now.

' _I missed you so much when you left_ ,' Roderich suddenly lamented, as his hands ran down to take up Ludwig's face and force his eyes up. _'I wanted you to stay. We could have been a family_.'

"I'm sorry. Gilbert was all alone."

He had always hated being torn between Roderich and Gilbert. How could he ever take sides, when he loved both of them? When he would have given his life for either one of them? He wished that they would have taken his feelings into more consideration when they had fought. That they had thought about how _he_ felt when they screamed at each other.

_'I'll always be here when you need me, Ludwig. Always. Don't let Gilbert wear you down_.'

The fingers were suddenly gone.

And when Ludwig looked up, they were gone, too, but he could still hear Roderich's voice, as though it were right next to him.

' _International negotiations are so fragile, Ludwig. Just like you. Here. Let's study a little. I know how much you like this kind of stuff_.'

Everything was black again.

He dug his heels into the floor, scraping the skin on the stone, and he pushed back until the had hit the wall. Pulling his knees up to his chest, he buried his face in them and began to rock back and forth, as Roderich tested his knowledge of foreign sympathies and ethics, and he blurted the answers aloud.

Even though he was alone.

Alone.

Alone.

Alone.

He spoke until his voice was hoarse and rough and his throat sore, and then he fell still in exhaustion and slipped into unconsciousness.

The days passed. Every hour was agony. Every minute was torture. Every second was _hell_.

No one had come to visit him again.

He felt sick. Strange. He walked around in circles in the room, cutting his feet raw on the shattered glass, bumping into the walls every so often, and when he could take no more monotony he grabbed up another shard of glass and held it in his hands. He spoke to it, but it did not speak back. But it was sharp, and when he pressed the edge of it into his arm, the pain made him _feel_ much more real than he thought he was.

He was getting weaker. He had stopped drinking. Even though his body was screaming for water, his brain was just too blurry and lethargic to fumble around in the dark for it. It hurt to breathe.

His brain _hurt_ , all the time. Like a fire that he could not put out.

The days passed.

He couldn't remember what anything looked like; there was only black. He could not remember what anything smelled like; the air was stale and getting thinner and thinner. He could not remember what the world sounded like; there was only a crushing silence.

Sometimes, he couldn't remember who he was. Ha! Funny. He had _never_ known who he was. How stupid.

He was stupid.

He struggled to catch his breath. The air was becoming spent. The door just wouldn't open. The end was getting closer. He could feel himself slipping down the slope towards complete insanity.

Days passed. Ivan had not come for him.

He laid on the floor one day, on his side, completely spent as he came close to his limit, and finally, mercifully, Gilbert came back to see him. In a good mood. He had forgiven him for his earlier trespass.

' _Lutz, why didn't you come visit me_?'

Ludwig opened his eyes after a great struggle, and the bright light was back.

Gilbert laid next to him, head propped up on his hand, and he was watching Ludwig with those expressive eyes that Ludwig had always loved when they were calm. His other hand ran up and down Ludwig's side, affectionately.

"I'm sorry," Ludwig whispered, voice barely audible even over the silence, and he tried to reach out, but his hand fell short.

He just couldn't move. He had nothing left.

Finished.

Maybe Gilbert had just come to see him off.

' _You didn't finish your homework, did you_?' Gilbert chided, and he could only twitch his head.

"Sorry...big brother."

Hadn't called Gilbert that in years.

' _That's alright. I'll finish it for you_.'

He tried to smile.

Gilbert had done his best. Even if his best hadn't been very good. Gilbert had made so many mistakes, but he was only human.

A hand on his face. Gilbert was above him, whispering in his ear. He closed his eyes. His chest hurt.

A cool, gentle kiss upon his lips.

' _Ludwig, I love you_.'

"I love you too," he managed to moan, and when he tried to reach his hand up farther towards Gilbert, suddenly he was gone.

Gone.

_I love you._

He couldn't bear it.

Gilbert was gone. He would never see him again. Never. Everything was gone. No one left.

_Why did you leave me?_

Resting his face on the floor, Ludwig dug his fingers into the stone and gave up. Complete and utter surrender.

He burst into tears.

He couldn't remember the last time he had cried before this whole mess, not like _this_ , crying so hard that his entire body shook and ached with the effort. He gave up. Sobbed so hard that he almost blacked out from the exertion.

It was time to let go. He was ready for it all to be over. If he could have done things over again...

If he could have gone back, he would have tried harder to make Gilbert go back to the doctor. Tried harder to make Gilbert calm down. Tried harder to figure him out. So they would have had more time together. Gilbert had been everything. His life. He had lived for Gilbert. Gilbert was gone. Why bother anymore? Gilbert had left him.

As he lay there quivering and trembling and sobbing and crying out to no one, suddenly the light on the ceiling came to life like the sun.

The door began to creak open.

A split second of incomprehension, immobility, and then he could only shriek and bury his face in his bloody palms as the force of the light tore his deprived eyes and brain and lit them up like an inferno. It was too bright.

It was too _bright_.

Turn it off.

He writhed this way and that on the floor, cutting himself on the fallen glass, screaming and kicking his legs, and _oh god_ , he could have died right there from the pain in his head. _Never_ had he felt such pain. Not ever. It cut through him like a knife, felt like he was being stabbed over and over, and it was not until someone had knelt down next to him and pushed his face into their chest that he finally came down enough to realize what was happening.

Pain.

He breathed in a familiar cologne.

Ivan.

Ivan had come back for him. Like he had promised.

Oh, fuckin' Christ, that _pain_ —

Shaking so hard that he couldn't breathe, he grabbed handfuls of Ivan's shirt, sobbing and doing everything he could to keep his eyes away from the merciless light, and Ivan leaned down and kissed the top of his head.

"It's alright. It's alright. I've got you. See? I told you I would come back."

A voice. A _real_ voice. It was music to his ears.

He tried to speak, but only a high-pitched whimper came out, and Ivan was suddenly running a soothing hand up and down his back, and whispered in his ear, "You're alright. How do you feel? It hurts, doesn't it?"

He nodded into Ivan's coat, unable to speak, and barely able to think. Couldn't think, couldn't do anything, not a thing, it hurt so fuckin' bad.

"You don't want this to happen again, do you?"

He shook his head.

White-hot pain. He could have died.

Couldn't stop sobbing.

"I don't want that, either. I hate seeing you like this, but I had to do it. You know I had to do it, don't you? It's your fault. I didn't want to, but you forced me. But it will all be alright now. I'm here. And you'll behave from now on, won't you? So that I won't have to put you in here again."

Again?

Oh god, no, no, no, no. He could not do this again. Not again. Oh god, he would do anything Ivan wanted, anything at all, to avoid going through this again. The worst moments of his life, on a constant loop? He'd stick the glass in his neck.

He nodded again, and he realized now, as he clung to Ivan's shirt blindly, unfathomable pain shooting through his brain as his neurons tried to piece themselves back together, why Toris was so deathly afraid of the slamming of a door. The slamming of a door was more horrifying than a gunshot. The slamming of a door was to look into the face of oblivion. The slamming of a door was to forget who you were.

Couldn't ever be in here again.

Ivan held him firmly, and then pulled him to his feet, and it was with gentle whispers in his ear that he was led away. Couldn't really walk, and Ivan eventually just scooped him up and carried him easily out.

Out of the room, and the air was cool and fresh and breathable.

He prayed that this was real. He could not bear it if this was a hallucination. He couldn't.

Ivan never stopped speaking to him. Ludwig clenched Ivan's shirt for dear life, not letting go of him for anything in the world. Ivan didn't leave his side, even for a second, and when he felt the softness of a bed beneath him, he held his palms over his eyes, as the awful pain in his head made him want to retch.

"Here, look, I turned the light down. See if you can open your eyes."

He didn't want to try, but he did anyway, and it was with reluctance that he tried to squint them open.

A moment of blackness, and then dancing lights, and then finally his vision cleared.

He was in his bedroom. No more endless white.

Ivan sat on the edge of the bed, and the lamp of the end table was on the lowest setting, casting out a dim yellow light. It was still too bright, and he shielded his eyes from it, and finally Ivan reached out, and touched his shoulder.

Turn the damn thing off.

"Look here," Ivan whispered, and Ludwig finally met his eyes.

Ivan was real.

Ivan was real, he was sure of it. Oh, god. Ivan was smiling.

"I missed you. Did you miss me too? See, I told you I'd come back for you. Didn't you believe me?"

Ludwig could only stare at him, overwhelmed.

Ivan.

Ivan was the most terrible and the most beautiful thing he had ever seen in that instant. Ivan, who wielded power over night and day, over sense and sanity, over life and death. Who could push him to the absolute brink of insanity and then pull him back.

Ivan came back for him. Ivan was real.

Had never seen anything like Ivan.

Ivan sat down beside of him on the bed, pulling him up tightly in his arms as he struggled to piece back together the broken shards of his sanity, and this time, when Ivan pressed his lips against his ear and whispered, "I'll protect you. I love you," it sounded strangely reasonable.

Because, after all, Ivan had saved him from the dark.

Ludwig only clenched fistfuls of Ivan's shirt, burying his face in Ivan's chest, trying to get as close as possible, and the horrible memories that the room had brought back to the surface were slowly fading away.

The past didn't matter. He had to live in the present to survive.

He tried to pull Ivan ever closer, even though he was already practically in Ivan's lap, and Ivan just snorted, and stroked his hair.

"Miss me?" A nod. "I missed you, too."

When the shooting pain in his head dulled down into a throb, Ludwig looked up, and when he met Ivan's eyes, he asked, huskily, "Hey. You're real, aren't you?"

Ivan only smiled. That was enough.

He could have sat here and hugged Ivan for days. That man.

He wasn't alone anymore. No more whispering.

Ivan sat upright, suddenly, and for a horrible, heart-racing moment, Ludwig thought that he was going to _leave_ , and he couldn't bear to be alone again, but Ivan only reached over down onto the floor and hauled up a bag. A first-aid kit that he must have put there days ago in preparation, and when Ivan sat it on the bed and leaned forward, pulling the shirt from Ludwig's shoulders gingerly, he began to speak again.

"I'm so impressed with you, you know. I've never had to turn the light off before. For a while there, I thought you might die! You're so brave." He pulled a bottle from the bag, and Ludwig only watched as he uncapped it and whispered, "This will sting."

Brave?

A cotton ball was soaked in the liquid, and then it was pressed against the wound on his chest. It burned like fire, and he winced, but Ivan's hands would not let him flinch back. Ludwig bowed his head at the pain, but Ivan's soothing words made it bearable, and then the liquid was rubbed against the cuts on his hands, and then his feet.

Ivan never stopped smiling.

He hadn't been brave. Hadn't felt that way at all.

"I still can't believe it! I knew you were something special, you know, as soon as I saw you. But I admit that you surprise me sometimes. You Germans, you have to act so tough all the time. Ha. I like that. I do. You're really great. Ah, I wish my German were better, so I could say what I really mean."

Good enough.

Ludwig could only lay there, and let Ivan croon words of endearment as he pulled out a needle and thread and then he looked up, saying, coolly, "I've got to stitch them. It will hurt a little. Which one should I do first?"

Which one? Did it matter? They would all hurt the same.

He only shrugged a shoulder, and Ivan's smile widened. "You're right, it's better for me to decide." He threaded the needle, and Ludwig clamped his jaw shut as he began to stitch up the deep cut on his chest. "See, it's better for me to do all this for you. I can make the decisions for you. You don't really need anyone else, do you? Isn't it nice, having someone take care of you?"

Well.

Yeah, actually. It really was. Everything he had ever wanted, just to rely on someone.

A short silence, as Ivan's eyes bored into his own, and Ludwig could only nod his head, helplessly.

Ivan's smile then was almost more of a smirk.

"Glad we understand each other."

Ivan's voice was smooth in his ears.

Only Ivan's voice.

Where had Gilbert's voice gone? Now that he was out of the room, it was gone. Like smoke. He could not hear it. He used to hear it so frequently in his head, no matter where he was. Now he struggled just to get a second of it; he struggled to remember the pitch and the tone. The inflections and the accents. Gilbert's voice.

Couldn't hear it.

And every time he thought he had it...

"I won't let anything happen to you."

...only Ivan's voice.

He was falling. He couldn't seem to climb back up.

And honestly, the further into the abyss he fell, the less he was sure that he wanted back up. Felt so good to have someone that he could put himself on. Someone into whose hands he could entrust himself.

Ivan set the bag aside an hour or so later, and pulled Ludwig up onto his chest, laying them side by side together. He let Ivan do as he would, and rested his head, and suddenly the blanket was pulled over him. A shift beside him, and then the light was off.

Ivan stayed with him the whole night. He was glad. He didn't want to be alone.

Right before he faded into unconsciousness, Ivan leaned in and whispered, in his ear, "You'll stay here with me forever. We were meant to be together. I can tell. Can't you feel it? I've looked so long for someone. I never found anyone. Until you. I was in Berlin for a reason now, I know it."

_Forever._

Gilbert had been wrong. Ivan _did_ love him. No one else had ever spoken to him like that. Gilbert was wrong.

For the first time, he felt his guard dropping, and he was so sick of worrying and fighting. He just wanted to be with someone who cared about him. Gilbert wasn't here anymore, but it wasn't so bad, because Ivan had stepped up to take his place.

Barely conscious and desperate to be reminded that he was no longer alone (and very much real) he reached up clumsily and threw his arms around Ivan's neck as tightly as he could. In doing so, he threw away his resilience. His pride. His independence. As if it mattered. He had none of that left now, anyhow. He was spent.

Ivan had won. Ivan always won.

Ludwig had never been any sort of match for a man like Ivan. Had never stood a chance.

There was a silence, and then Ivan gave a deep noise of contentment, and tightened his embrace, resting his chin on the top of Ludwig's head. The moon streamed in weakly through the curtains, and Ludwig finally fell asleep, Ivan tucked firmly into his side.

Going with the flow was so much easier.

He gave up. Ivan won.

Gilbert was gone, and that was that.


	23. Faith Leap

**Chapter 23**

**Faith Leap**

It was hard to tell who could be trusted and who could not.

Especially in this part of the land, so far east of Brno, and so close to the border of Russia, where everyone walked around with thick coats and fur hats and with shifty looks, and Gilbert felt horribly out of place on these streets, where hardly anyone spoke German, and knowing that the final border was _so_ close was almost overwhelming.

He could barely breathe.

As he pushed through the crowds, he kept his eyes straight ahead, so that he would not lose track of his guide.

He never thought he would say it, _ever_ , but thank god for Roderich. If he had had to repeat the last horrendous border crossing, he was not sure that he would have had the resolve to go through with it. Woulda choked, and turned tail. But now there was someone helping him, and when the man before him slipped down a side street and into a waiting car, Gilbert followed. There was no conversation. No small talk. All business.

When the car stopped hours later at the edge of a great, dark forest, he was passed from one guide to another, an exchange of money was made, and then they started walking.

The car left.

Only trees.

Gilbert had known all along that it would be hard to get across, but he hadn't anticipated that it would take four days of continuous walking through undergrowth and trees and snow and ice to get there.

Christ.

His legs were sore, his heels ached, his wounded arm and hand hurt, his head was pounding, and his stomach churned, but still he walked behind them, and sometimes they had to stop and wait for him to catch up. He was so tired. Looked pathetic, no doubt, because sometimes they shook their heads and slapped him on the back to spur him onward. They allowed him to sleep only in the middle of the afternoon, when the sun was the brightest, and they walked under cover of darkness and evening and cloud fronts.

Ludwig was waiting.

With every burning, agonizing step, he was getting closer.

That was the thought that sustained him those horrible days, and he did not even realized that he had entered Ukrainian lands, leaving the forest for fields, until one of the men in front of him had cried out, cheerily, "Look, there! See the lights? We're almost there!"

Gilbert raised his head, dumbly, and sure enough, far out on the dark horizon, there was a faint, dull glow of a city.

Kyiv.

He had walked so many days, and he was only in Kyiv. No, not yet. Kyiv was hours away. That dull glow was so far. A road suddenly jutted up from out of the snow, and they walked along it, as quickly as possible, and after half an hour a car slowed to halt in front of them. His next pass off. Another exchanging of money, he leapt into the car, and the men left behind waved him farewell.

Such an intricate web that Roderich had woven. Roderich was brilliant.

The road zoomed by, the snow started to fall again, and as he leaned his head against the window, Gilbert regretted terribly that he had missed yet another Christmas with Ludwig, having spent it walking through foreign lands in despair. Alone.

Did Ludwig look the same as he always had? Was he still the same person?

...did it matter?

Maybe he wouldn't ever see him again.

"Hey, you listenin'?"

Gilbert sat upright, and when he wrenched his head over, the driver was staring at him in annoyance. It was obvious that he had been speaking, but Gilbert, out in space, had not heard a single word.

"Sorry," he grunted, awkwardly. "Sorry, I'm a little... What were you saying?"

A gentle glare, and the man shook his head.

"I was saying, that I'm gonna drop you off at the train station. I think you can manage to buy a ticket on your own. From there—hey, are you _listening_?"

Gilbert could only nod, dumbly, even though the words were distant in his ears.

"You better pay attention if you wanna make it! Look, the train leaves Kyiv, and you're gonna be on it for a few hours, and then, and this _really_ important, you're gonna look for a town called Oryol. Hear me? Oryol! And when you see the first signs that its coming up, you're gonna go the back, and you're gonna jump off the train, because right when you're about to pull into Oryol is when they do a passport check on the train cars. When you jump, just make sure you remember to follow the railroad tracks. You'll get into town in a hour or so, and someone will be waiting there to take you to Moscow by car."

"How will I know who?" he asked, weakly, and the man sent him a stern look.

"Don't worry about it. He'll find you. Just walk into town. Don't go far. He'll be there. And don't forget to jump _before_ you get to Oryol!"

He shuddered a little, feeling so overwhelmed, and the man thrust a slip of paper into his hand. Gilbert looked down at it, dumbly, and saw letters he couldn't read.

"That's what it will look like. Oryol. Just make sure you keep an eye out for it. If you don't get off the train before they start the check, then you're done for."

There was a silence, and Gilbert tucked the paper safely in his pocket. A horrible gnawing of fear in his chest, because suddenly it was _real_ , and the thought of leaping from a steaming locomotive was absolutely terrifying. Back in the day, before he had lost Ludwig, such an adventure would have been amazing (maybe just not inside the USSR), and maybe he would have leapt headlong into the challenge with bravado, confident in his ability to reign supreme, but it was different now.

He had lost Ludwig. With Ludwig, he had lost his confidence too. His self-assurance. If he couldn't even protect Ludwig, then what good was he?

The dull glow on the horizon became steadily brighter, and then there was the hazy outline of Kyiv, looming pale against the breaking dawn.

The sun steadily rose above the line of the forest, and the buildings of Kyiv lit up like an ominous inferno, and when the train station stood before them, it was far too soon.

Too soon. He was not ready.

Whether he was ready or not, the car lurched to a halt, and he stepped out into the freezing air, and then he was alone again in the train station. He bought his ticket to Moscow, lamented that Roderich's money was already dwindling, and it was with a heavy heart and equally heavy feet that he trudged into the train and took a seat.

He leaned his head against the window, and even though he wanted nothing more than to close his eyes and go straight to sleep, he did not dare, because if he fell asleep then maybe he would miss his jump off, and the only thing waking him up would be a hand on his shoulder, and then a voice asking to see his passport.

He couldn't sleep.

Hanging his head, he pulled out the piece of paper with the odd letters and clenched it in his fist, and let his mind wander.

Ludwig. Dumb Ludwig. If he could have just listened in the first place, he would be safe back at home in Berlin, watching television with Alfred in the evenings and studying with Roderich in the afternoons and chatting with Erzsébet in the mornings.

If he could just listen...

A whistle in the distance, and the train began to push forward on the tracks, and Gilbert turned his gaze to the window, watching the foggy windows with halfhearted interest. He folded the paper over and over again in his cold hands, putting his fingers to work so that he would not go crazy. He wanted to stand up and pace, but he did not want to draw unwanted attention to himself.

An old woman sat down on the seat across the aisle from him, sending him an occasional glance from the corner of her eye, and he shifted his weight anxiously. He was in the USSR now. No one here could be trusted.

His paper folding intensified, and as the time passed and the snow fell and the train chugged along, he could feel himself falling further and further into exhaustion. His eyelids were much too heavy, and if he could just hang his head, just for a second...

His fingers fell still, the air was warm and heavy, and he nodded off.

_Wait for me._

Sleep wasn't always welcome.

His vision blurred. His head dropped. His dreams were not as pleasant as before.

The atmosphere was strange. Whispering.

Dreaming.

When he looked back up, with bleary eyes, he was just back in Berlin, in that old living room from years past, and his relief was doubled when the door swung open and Ludwig ran in, cheeks red and pale hair gleaming white in the sunlight. Ludwig, smiling breathlessly, backpack on his shoulders and covered with sweat from the summer heat, fifteen or sixteen, tall and bright and amicable, and when he saw Gilbert sitting there, he said, eagerly, ' _It's a pretty day! Won't you come out for a while? We can go the park._ '

The static crackled in his ears.

Gilbert stood up, elated and breathless, and took a step forward.

The most beautiful thing he had ever seen. Nothing on earth like Ludwig.

He reached out.

' _I'm waiting_.'

Before he could grab Ludwig's hand up within his own, there was someone else standing in the sunlight. Someone taller than even Ludwig, and broader, and their shoulders blocked all of the sunlight from the doorframe, and Ludwig was cast in shadows.

Gilbert froze still, and the static in his ears turned into an unbearable screeching, because it was the Russian that stood back there behind Ludwig, and when he placed two large hands upon Ludwig's shoulders, something horrible happened :

Ludwig _smiled_ , and twisted around, looking up at the Russian and asking, as he had asked Gilbert, ' _Won't you go walking with me_?'

Gilbert stood frozen in horror, as the Russian's pale eyes pinned him down, holding him in place just like they had before, and he could only open his mouth helplessly when the Russian tightened his grip on Ludwig's shoulders, and returned Ludwig's smile. The Russian took Ludwig's hand within his own and pulled him back through the door, Ludwig walked with him of his own accord, and as he went, he never even cast a single glance over his shoulder at Gilbert, not even just to say that everything would be alright, or not to worry because he would come back.

Come back? Ludwig wouldn't ever come back.

_We couldn't be together..._

The Russian had won.

_Forever._

He suddenly came back to earth with a terrible crash, and he raced to the door just as it slammed shut, and no matter how hard he turned the handle, the door just wouldn't open. It was stuck. He started screaming, then, words that even he did not understand, and he couldn't _bear_ to lose Ludwig again—

A hand on his shoulder.

With a cry, Gilbert leapt up to his feet in horror, heart racing and chest heaving, and for a moment all he could see was black.

Ludwig was gone.

A pale light broke through his haze, a flash of white at his side, and he realized that he was back on the train.

His forehead was damp.

For a moment, he looked around, dumbly, and then he saw the old woman, standing there beside him, and she was gazing up at him with a look of alarm. She had shaken him awake, no doubt, and was probably surprised at his reaction. He opened his mouth, but found no words, and then he could see that she held a piece of paper in her hand.

He had dropped it in his sleep. She held the paper up, and he took it with a weak smile, and she said something to him in Russian, and pointed to the window. Even though he could not understand her words, he got the idea. She had seen the paper on the floor. She had picked it up. She had seen the town name. And she had awoken him, because his destination was near.

He would have said, 'thank you', had he not been so nervous to speak German around her, and instead inclined his head, politely. She smiled at him and resumed her seat.

He did not.

He felt sick all of a sudden, knowing now what he had to do, and as he strode unsteadily to the back of the train, the twisting in his stomach was not just from the anticipation of his jump.

That horrible dream.

A dream? He shuddered as he approached the last car, and took up the door handle in his hand. Maybe it was an ill omen. A premonition. Ripping the door open, he stepped back out into the winter air, and his mood was worse than ever before. That image seemed burned in his mind, of that Russian, with his hands upon Ludwig's shoulders. No time to lose. Ludwig was always in danger.

The snow was going by with dizzying speed, and as he slunk down and grabbed the railing in his hands, he hesitated. He was _scared_.

...oh god, that _smile_ on Ludwig's face.

Fueled by adrenaline and something else that he could not put his finger on, he pushed the latch and opened the gate, and braced his legs.

_One._

It wasn't so hard, just to jump. It would just be like jumping into a pool, and if he closed his eyes, he could pretend that it was water waiting below, and not the hard ground.

_Two._

Tuck and roll. It wasn't like he hadn't hit the ground ever before. How many times had he collapsed dead drunk on the sidewalk? At least there was snow to soften the blow.

_Three_.

He took a deep breath, and leapt.

For a moment, there was only air. And then the ground came. Hard. It knocked the wind out of him, and the pebbles that lined the sides of the tracks dug into his skin and cut his hands as he sought to steady himself.

His head hit the edge of a rock, sending stars across his vision.

Helpless rolling, the white of snow and then the white of the sky, and when he finally fell still, on his stomach and completely limp as the coarse snow rubbed his face, he could only lie there, breathless.

His head was splitting open.

A warmth ran down the back of his neck, and when he put his fingers in it, they came back red. Dots of light. Whooshing in his ears. Dazed and distant. Pain. Had probably gone and concussed himself. The last thing he needed.

He wanted to cry suddenly, and maybe he would have, if there had not suddenly been a voice so close to his ear, coming to him through the snow and the wind and the screeching of the distant train.

' _Down and out again? I'm not surprised_.'

He shuddered, and maybe he was just going crazy. He had hit his head damn hard. He was hearing things.

' _What? Can't even talk this time?_ '

He was just hearing things. There wasn't anyone there.

But when he looked up, head pounding and vision blurry, he was momentarily startled.

The world stopped. He couldn't breathe. His heart soared.

Because standing above him, pale hair shining white in the winter sun, arms crossed and eyes cool and icy, was Ludwig.

Ludwig.

Dressed neatly in his perfectly clean clothes, hair slicked back and not a detail out of place, fresh-faced and pale and young and beautiful, he stared down at Gilbert with a low brow and a frown, and even though the snow fell thick around him it did not seem to touch him, and he was shaking his head in what could have been disappointment.

Ludwig always looked disappointed in him.

' _Hi, Gilbert. Awake?_ '

Even though he _knew_ it wasn't really Ludwig—god, had he hit his head _that_ hard?—and even though he _knew_ that he would just be talking to himself, still Gilbert flipped over onto his back and raised himself up onto his elbows, and asked, roughly, "Well? Are you just gonna stand there or are you gonna help me up?"

Some part of him expected Ludwig to extend a hand and pull him to his feet, but Ludwig only scoffed, and his brow flew up. His voice was soft and calm, and maybe condescending as he said, coolly, ' _You got down there by yourself. You can get up by yourself_.'

Pfft. He'd heard _that_ before.

Shaking his head to clear it, he threw his arms to the side and braced his palms on the ground, and it took every effort to push himself up, and when he stood, he nearly fell right back down for his dizziness. His head felt like it would explode, and Ludwig's voice was echoing eerily in his ears, and the tone of it was silvery and ghostly, like Ludwig was speaking to him through some kind of strange wind. Through a dying radio or something.

But it was still Ludwig, and even if he wasn't real, god almighty he was still beautiful to look at.

Gilbert didn't dare reach out, because if he tried to touch him, then maybe Ludwig would vanish like smoke, and he would be alone again. He could not bear this journey alone. He wouldn't make it. Not alone.

Ludwig knew the limits of his will and courage.

A thought struck him, as Ludwig stared at him unblinkingly, and he asked, voice raspy and low, "Hey! D'you come out here to help me? I've been looking for you for so long."

Ludwig's arms fell loose at his sides, and he only stood there silently, and maybe it was crazy, and certainly it didn't make sense, but he _wanted_ to believe that some part of Ludwig, wherever he was, had somehow crossed space and time and all boundaries just to see him on his way. Almost like a guardian angel, if Gilbert had believed in such things.

' _A long time. Yeah, it has been long, Gilbert. It's been a while_.'

"Yeah," he managed, weakly, shuffling his feet awkwardly. "Yeah it has."

It burned him suddenly, like a knife in his stomach, how much he _missed_ Ludwig, and seeing him like this before him but not being able to touch him was almost worse somehow than any torture. He missed him.

His head was _killing_ him.

Knew he had a concussion, knew he was seeing things, and didn't care.

He forced his arms to stay straight at his side, as the urge to leap forward and draw Ludwig into an embrace became almost overwhelming, and it was with a heavy heart that Gilbert took a step forward, and said, "Well, kiddo. Let's go."

Steadying himself, he took another step, and slowly his gait corrected itself as he went, and even though his head and chest hurt and his stomach was churning, it was alright, because Ludwig walked silently at his side, as bright as the sun could ever be.

A guide.

Trudging through the snow, he spoke to Ludwig, and now that he was not alone, it was easier to set his sights on his destination.

"I'll be there soon. Just wait for me."

Ludwig scoffed.

' _You've been walking for a long time. Aren't you tired_?'

"Yeah, but I can't stop. I'll have you back before long."

' _Oh? So sure_?' Ludwig crooned, smoothly, and Gilbert felt almost embarrassed under his brother's stern eyes.

Ludwig had lost all faith in him long ago. Rightfully so.

That smile.

Swallowing to fight off his nausea, Gilbert tried to appear brave.

"It'll take a week, maybe, to get to Moscow, if I'm really careful."

' _You're never careful, Gilbert_.'

"I will be. I won't get caught."

With those words, Ludwig scoffed again, and fell silent.

He glanced at Ludwig every chance he got, and it _hurt_ not to be able to take his hand. Just wanted to grab his damn hand. Wanted to touch him. Wanted Ludwig, more than anything.

They walked through the snow, Ludwig's steps making no sound and leaving no footprints. Ludwig's eyes were golden in the pale sun.

A train horn in the distance, and Gilbert could see the beginning of a road against the white snow. Lights. He followed the road, eagerly, Ludwig at his side, and when the outline of civilization was near, he felt hopeful. He was close.

As he staggered into town, cold and tired and numb and dizzy, he kept close to Ludwig, and when he began his search for his next ride, Ludwig was suddenly leaning in and whispering words in his ear.

It was not encouragement.

' _Where are you going now, Gilbert? You're always going somewhere, but you always lose, in the end. Where are you going? After him? What will you do if you find him? You'll run. You'll get scared. You always do_.'

He shook his head, and tried to keep his eyes focused, because he was _so_ close, he could _feel_ it, and why couldn't Ludwig ever just _trust_ him? Roderich had found someone here for him. Someone was waiting.

Ludwig didn't believe in him.

"I won't run," he grunted, as he approached a streetlamp, and then suddenly Ludwig was standing right in front of him, blocking his path.

He was smiling.

' _Stop_.' Gilbert did, and Ludwig cast his eyes off to the right, and, inclining his head, he asked, casually, ' _Is that what you're looking for_?'

He looked now too, and there, next to a tiny shop, stood a man, pacing back and forth with his hands tucked in his pockets, and his impatient air made him stand out from the other people on the street. Gilbert would have walked right past him, so inconspicuous was his appearance, but sharp-eyed Ludwig was never fooled.

Well. Ludwig wasn't real, so Gilbert knew on some level that his own subconscious had seen that man and had directed him over.

' _Go to him_.'

Turning in his path, Gilbert walked wearily over to the pacing man, and with every step closer, he took in his appearance. Blond hair, a little shorter than Gilbert, bespectacled, and he looked young, Ludwig's age, and above all, he looked _timid_. Not like a border-hopper and an expert smuggler. Maybe Ludwig was wrong. But when he saw Gilbert approaching, the man's head snapped up, and he smiled, and it was obvious that this was, after all, the man he was looking for.

Ludwig tucked his hands behind his back, and called aloud, ' _Sorry we're late. He fell down_.'

The words stung a bit, even though he knew that he was the only one who could hear them, and when Gilbert approached, the man didn't speak, and immediately turned on his heel and walked off into the crowded streets, and Gilbert followed behind at a short distance, trying to draw as little attention to himself as possible.

Ludwig walked at his side, hands clasped behind his back and smiling easily. Confidently. This was how Ludwig had always looked when he knew that _he_ was right and that Gilbert had done something stupid. Even though Gilbert never admitted being in the wrong.

A car loomed in the distance. The man opened the door and stepped inside, and the sound of the ignition made Gilbert's heart race. It was the sound of no return, because once this town was gone, then there was just Moscow. The heart of Russia. When Gilbert approached the car, he froze in his tracks in a horrible hesitation, because he _feared_ Russia. Had never wanted to go there.

Terror.

Ludwig saw his sudden reluctance and his smile widened, straight white teeth visible as he laughed to himself. ' _Well! Isn't this exciting! Adventure and the like. Well, I can't believe you even made it this far! Don't push yourself too hard Gilbert. You can't handle it. You know, if you ask nicely, he might even drive you all the way back to Berlin._ '

Ludwig's laughter was a dagger, and it was with a stir of anger that he reached out and grabbed the door handle, and wrenched it open.

He was not going back to Berlin.

Ludwig didn't trust him.

Stepping inside, he settled down, and he had barely shut the door before the car pulled out. Gilbert tried to focus his attention on the man beside of him, who was looking at him, but Ludwig made it hard, sitting in the backseat, legs folded primly and arms crossed behind his head. He was smiling at Gilbert in the rearview mirror, pale eyes alight.

' _I haven't been on a road trip for a long time. Russia might be fun_.'

Suddenly agitated, Gilbert almost said, 'Shut up, Ludwig!', but he suppressed it, because the man was already staring at him as it was and Ludwig, for all his smart comments, was not _real_.

The air was tense. Gilbert scratched his collar irritably.

"Well," the man suddenly began, "I'm glad you made it here safely."

"Yeah," he grumbled, still catching Ludwig's gaze in the mirror, and he could feel the man shifting his weight anxiously.

"So. You're going to Moscow, huh? What's in Moscow?"

' _Yeah_ ,' Ludwig began from behind, ' _What_ is _in Moscow, Gilbert? All the way there just for me? Since when_?'

"None of your business," he snapped, as the words grated him, and the man frowned a bit at his tone, and Ludwig started laughing again.

' _Gilbert, you can't ever play nice with anyone. Roderich does everything for you. All the hard work he's done, and you'll just run away in the end._ '

Clamping his jaw, Gilbert averted his eyes and stared at the road ahead, and tried to keep focused.

"I'm looking for someone," Gilbert finally relented, and the man raised a brow.

Maybe better not to antagonize a man who was putting his ass on the line for Gilbert.

"Oh? All the way to Moscow?" He snorted, humorlessly, and added, "I was kinda surprised, at first. Usually when I get people past borders and passport checks, it's to get them _out_ of the USSR, not in."

"I bet," he said monotonously, not interested in conversation, and the man shifted again.

"May I ask who you're looking for?"

Gilbert did not respond, reluctant to say the Russian's name lest he run across someone else who would freeze up in fear, and he needed this man, because he could not get to Moscow on his own.

"I'll tell you when we get there—"

'If _we get there_!' Ludwig called eagerly from the back, and Gilbert sent him a halfhearted glare in the mirror.

"Alright," the man said, carefully. "Fair enough. Don't worry. You're safe with me. I've been doing this for a long time."

They fell still, and Ludwig straightened up and began to drum his fingers on the edge of Gilbert's seat, resting his chin on the leather and leering at him.

_'How have you been Gilbert? Life treating you okay? Say, why don't you offer him some acid? Ah ha ha, that might make the trip go by a little faster, eh_?'

Trying to distract himself from Ludwig's piercing gaze, Gilbert turned his attention to the man, and asked, lowly, "So, if you're so good at this, why are _you_ still here?"

The man shrugged a shoulder, saying, "I don't know. I like helping people, I guess. There are a lot of people that want to get out, but just don't know how. I can help them."

_'I wanted to help people. Why don't_ you?'

"Oh."

This was so awkward.

"You're bleeding," the man observed, but Gilbert shrugged off his concern.

"It's nothing."

He glanced over then, and took in the man a little more now that they were alone.

Blue eyes. High cheeks. Straight nose. Neatly trimmed hair, shorter at the back than the front. Handsome, certainly, despite the look of exhaustion on his face. Not quite Ludwig's age, after all; a little older. Thirty, maybe, or late twenties. The most noticeable thing about him, for it all, was just how damn _nice_ he looked. Kind. Gentle. A good man. Not a smuggler at all.

Just another damn thing to remind Gilbert of Ludwig. Ludwig had been just as kind. Ludwig had had that same air of gentleness, like this man.

He was tired.

"My name is Eduard, by the way."

Resting his head against the window, he whispered, "I'm Gilbert," and then he closed his eyes, as Ludwig leaned in from behind and whispered in his ear, and now his voice was warmer and gentler.

' _I'm waiting. I missed you so much. I hate fighting with you_.'

He was so close.

' _Go to sleep, Gilbert. You look so tired. Remember what you said? That we'd be together_...'

He smiled as he drifted into sleep, Ludwig's deep voice in his head, and tried to stay hopeful.

He would not give up.

Oh, he missed Ludwig _so_ much. He couldn't live without him, just couldn't. Couldn't. They _had_ to be together. Forever.

The only promise he ever intended to keep.


	24. Snowblind

**Chapter 24**

**Snowblind**

It felt like years.

The bed was warm.

He hadn't slept like this in so long. Hard. Deep. Dreamless. He could have slept longer, maybe, if there hadn't been a warm hand upon his cheek, and then a thumb running down his jaw line, and the comfort of sleep was slowly shaken off. It felt like he had been asleep for years, and at first, Ludwig couldn't even open his eyes, for the heaviness in his head. Too much effort. His chest ached. So tired, even though he had to have been sleeping forever.

Someone was whispering above him. He couldn't understand. The words were soft, and soothing. Gentle. Comforting. The hand moved from his jaw and entangled gently in his hair.

Garbled thoughts fluttered through his mind, and then there was a jolt of panic.

A kiss on his lips. Static. The cold feel of glass in his hand.

Ludwig came out of the fog, and for a horrible moment, he thought that the whispering was just in his head, because he had gone _crazy_ , and with a sharp gasp he bolted upright so quickly that his head split open in a blast of white pain so strong that he cried out, and everything was dark.

The whispering stopped. Silence. Nothing stirred.

Fire.

He shut his eyes and placed his palms above them as the pain throbbed, gasping through his mouth, hissing and whimpering, and then someone placed a hand on the back of his neck, and Ludwig knew, finally, that he was not alone.

His head hurt so badly that he had to bite his lip to keep himself from sobbing.

"It's okay. Hush. I'm here. You're alright."

That voice.

When he finally managed to open his eyes, and when his vision cleared, he was relieved. It was just Ivan. He was _glad_. How strange.

Glad to see Ivan when he woke up.

"Hey," Ivan crooned in his ear, as Ludwig struggled to keep his eyes open against the unholy light of the morning sun that broke through the curtains, "How are you feeling? You've been asleep for a while. I was worried."

Ludwig couldn't answer; had he opened his mouth, he would have started bawling. Hurt so damn much. Heard a high-pitched whimper, like that of a dog, and knew it had come from him.

As the black fled from the edges of his eyes, he was finally able to squint and really see Ivan, and it struck him instantly that he was _grateful_ , above all else, that Ivan had stayed with him all this time.

So glad to see Ivan, so glad he was there.

Sitting there in bed beside of him, a forgotten book on his lap above the blanket, Ivan stared at him with a smile, pale hair damp and uncombed, in a loose shirt that was half-unbuttoned. Pale hair on his chest. His cheeks were red and there was a thin sheen of sweat on his forehead and neck, and Ludwig realized then how _warm_ the room was, and suddenly he could feel a heater blasting on him from the side.

"You were cold," Ivan responded, simply, when he saw him looking at the heater, "You lost a fair bit of blood. I wanted to make sure you were warm enough."

That made him grateful, too, because obviously Ivan was extremely uncomfortable in this heat and yet that had not stopped him from turning the heater on high.

"I'm alright now," Ludwig finally managed to whisper, voice barely audible for how rough and scratchy it was from disuse, thick too from trying not to cry, and Ivan did not seem to need any more than that; quickly, he leaned heavily across Ludwig and turned the heater off with a look that could have been relief.

The hot air stopped, and a chill set in.

When Ivan pulled back, he did not pull back all the way, falling still when he was hovering above Ludwig, so close that their noses nearly touched, and the look in Ivan's eyes was heavy and overwhelming. Ludwig could only sit there, frozen, and it occurred to him blearily, as a bead of sweat ran down from Ivan's damp hair, that Ivan was exceedingly handsome when flustered and unkempt.

Siberia in human form, perhaps, untamed and dangerous and wild.

Funny, how perceptions could change. Was fairly certain Ivan had appeared terrifying and frightening to him not so long ago, and yet now he was very close to being the most beautiful thing Ludwig had ever seen. It was Ivan, after all, that had pulled him from the dark.

Ludwig shifted, just a bit, and it struck him how _sore_ he was. Every little motion was agony.

Ivan's heavy, lidded eyes ran endlessly over his face, as if they hadn't seen each other in years.

"You slept so long. I was worried. I'm glad you're awake now."

So long. How long had he been here? He felt like he had been run over by a train.

Ivan's fingers ran down his shoulder, soothingly. Ludwig leaned into the touch. Not alone anymore.

That awful dark. The bright light. A shatter of glass. That horrible solitude. Loneliness. Hopelessness. The inability to think. The burning fire in his head. Pain. Fear. Terrible memories.

And then Ivan, coming to his aid, like he always did.

Ivan had carried him to safety when he had collapsed in the forest of Brno. Ivan had defended so passionately his honor. Ivan had brought him back from the verge of hypothermic death. It had been Ivan, in the end, who had saved him from the dark. And it was Ivan, now, who reached out and placed a gentle hand above the stitches on his chest, observing the wound with a careful eye and sure fingers.

Seemed like Ivan always came running to the rescue when Ludwig did something stupid.

His knight in shining armor, stupid as it sounded.

When had Ludwig become such a damsel in distress? Never had been before.

...or had he always been in distress?

"That looks better," Ivan said, more to himself, and the feel of Ivan's heavy, balmy palm on his skin was strangely comforting. Ivan looked up, and caught his gaze, and asked, again, "How are you feeling?"

An honest reply would have been something like, 'better, as long as you're here,' but such a response would have killed whatever small shard of pride he had left within him, and he was clumsy with such words. With a weak voice, he only managed a lame, "Okay."

The urge to cry was ever waning with Ivan's presence.

Ivan smiled and reached out, smoothing down his messy hair fondly.

Ludwig couldn't help it. So overwhelmed. Without thinking, and as if his body was moving of its own accord, he raised a wobbly arm and placed the back of his hand against Ivan's damp forehead, wiping away the sheen of sweat. Didn't know why he did it. He was just _so_ glad he wasn't alone. He needed to _touch_ something. Needed to feel Ivan, to be certain he was real.

He realized, when he saw his palm against Ivan's skin, how pale he was. A ghost. Maybe he had just faded away in there.

Ivan fell still, and his smile faded. Looked so serious, then. For a horrible moment, as he sat there silently, Ludwig wondered if he had done something wrong. Ivan's calm eyes could be deceiving, and he looked suddenly so pensive, and, oh god, if he had done something wrong and if Ivan were _angry_ —

Then Ivan reached up and took his hand within his own, and placed Ludwig's cool palm against his lips. And when he looked up, he was smiling again.

"I'm glad you're back. I missed you."

Ludwig was relieved.

"You should rest more," Ivan suddenly murmured, and then he pulled himself to his feet, and the warmth was gone.

A squirm of anxiety in his stomach as Ivan buttoned up his shirt and smoothed his hair, and then he took a step towards the door. Was he leaving? The door loomed in the distance. Ludwig straightened up, eyes wide and alert, and he grabbed handfuls of the blanket as he longed to leap up and follow.

Ivan was _leaving_.

He couldn't seem to move, and now Ivan had the doorknob in his hand. Oh, no. Not alone. Didn't want to be alone.

"Go back to sleep, and I'll come back for you later on and bring you something to eat."

As Ivan stood there, gripping the side of the door in his hand as he stood in the frame, Ludwig felt a horrible rise of panic. Oh, god, if he shut the door—

If he shut the door...

"Wait," Ludwig said, as he gazed at Ivan with wide eyes of alarm, "Where are you going?"

There was a pause, and Ivan watched him coolly.

"Just to work," Ivan said, and there was a hint of a leer twitching on his lips, almost as though he could read Ludwig's mind. "I won't be long."

They stared at each other, and Ludwig didn't want to _say_ it, but Christ almighty if Ivan left him alone again he was afraid he would start to hear those voices, that he would see those things again, and he couldn't handle anymore of that horrible _nothing_.

Finally, Ludwig managed a weak, apprehensive, "Is it... Is it really important?"

Ivan quirked his brow, curiously, and then waved a hand in the air. "No," he said, and then left the door standing wide open, and came back slowly towards the bed. But he didn't lie back down, and instead stood there at the foot, staring down at Ludwig calmly. "Why? ...do you want me to stay?"

Ludwig opened his mouth, and lost his voice. He didn't wanna be alone. He didn't want Ivan to leave.

Not alone.

Swallowing his pride, Ludwig nodded his head, and that was enough.

"Well!" Ivan drawled, cheerily and maybe triumphantly, "if you want me to stay so badly, what can I do? Alright. It's just paperwork. I can do that later. Better yet, I'll make Toris do it. We'll spend the day together."

Relief flooding his chest, Ludwig followed Ivan with his eyes as he returned and lowered himself down on the bed, and when Ivan reached out and pulled him up to his side, placing an arm around his shoulders, Ludwig fell into him, because Ivan was real. The ghosts back in the room were not.

Ivan was here. They were not.

"How do your feet feel?" Ivan suddenly asked, and Ludwig jumped a little. Pulling his legs out from under the blanket, he tried to observe the soles, but his limbs were too weak to really move, and he fell short. Ivan was quick to reach down and inspect, and before long he crooned, "They look better. Do you think you can walk?"

He nodded, even though he was pretty sure that he would have fallen flat on his face, but Ivan was suddenly leering away at him, and he realized that Ivan's question was not really meant to be answered.

"Well," Ivan said, neatly, "I don't want you to fall."

Before Ludwig could protest, Ivan reached down and enveloped him within his huge arms, and lifted him up straight into the air like a piece of paper.

Yup—a damsel, alright.

As he carried Ludwig to the door, Ivan looked down at him with a furrowed brow, and muttered, to himself, "You're so light."

Probably was, long as he had been up there in oblivion.

Anyway, that wasn't Ludwig's greatest concern, and he was thankful that the hall was empty, because he would have been mortified if anyone had passed and had seen Ivan carrying him like a doll, and he was thankful too that it was only a short distance before Ivan knocked open the bathroom door with his foot and stepped inside.

Humiliating.

Ivan finally set him down, and he immediately wished that he hadn't, as his feet stung and throbbed and his legs wobbled. A gasp of pain. Reaching out and gripping the sink for support, he could only watch as Ivan knelt down and turned the faucet of the bathtub on, and the sound of rushing water was wonderful.

He was about to fall over.

The mirror quickly steamed up, and when the water was high enough, Ivan shut it off and came over, hovering above him and smiling.

"Well? Go on, get in."

Now he hesitated, as Ivan leered at him and watched him expectantly, and even though Ivan had stripped him down once before (yeah, and probably more times when he had been unconscious), it was still shameful for him to be so exposed. Felt so embarrassed. Ivan's head tilted, like it always did when he was observing and calculating and taking notes, and then his smile widened enough to show his teeth, in that charming smile that Ludwig found himself increasingly fond of, and he drew his hands up and placed them above his eyes.

"Alright," Ivan conceded, "I'm not looking! Hurry up and get in."

Ludwig did, as quickly as his unsteady body would allow, and fell inside the water heavily. As soon as the warm water fell up to his chest, he realized how exhausted he was, and laid his head back, closing his eyes. Coulda slept right there.

A shadow fell over him.

When he looked up, Ivan was kneeling down, still smiling, and he had taken up a cloth in his hands.

"Let me see your arm," he stated, and Ludwig held it out instantly, without thinking.

It startled him, almost, how quickly he had done what Ivan asked of him, but maybe that would be for the best in the end. Jumping when Ivan said to.

Ivan cleaned and tidied the healing cuts on his arm, and then the other, and before he even really knew it, Ivan was inspecting _everything_ , and he did mean everything, but it was alright. As long as Ivan didn't leave him alone. He laid his head back, let Ivan do as he would, and began to drift as Ivan whispered close in his ear.

On the verge of sleep and subdued in the warmth of the water, he took comfort in Ivan's hands, as they ran through his hair to cleanse it, and he was only vaguely aware of his surroundings when Ivan leaned in and asked, eagerly, "Are you alright to sleep alone tonight? I might be up late to finish those papers."

Looking up blearily, Ludwig furrowed his brow. Wasn't that Toris' job? Ivan was fucking with him.

He did not want to be alone, though, not alone.

Seeing his expression, Ivan's eyes narrowed coyly, and he continued, "Well, if you don't want to be alone, I guess I could let you move into my room. Would you like that? I can keep a better eye on you there. You're still so weak."

Ivan's strong fingers entangled in his hair, Ludwig could only lay there and stare up at him helplessly. Into Ivan's room? Did Ivan even _have_ a room? Did Ivan even _sleep_?

Ivan's room.

Ivan was waiting, patiently, as he began to rinse the soap from Ludwig's hair.

Then, feeling in a strange way that he was being granted an exceedingly rare privilege, a glimpse into Ivan's privacy and personal space, Ludwig nodded. Because, god help him, he didn't want to be alone.

Would rather sleep with Ivan than with his own mind.

"That's great!" Ivan said, and there was something in his voice that was nearly excited, like a little kid, and Ludwig could only smile, weakly. "Don't worry, I'll stay with you as long as you want me to. I won't leave you alone."

Oh yeah, Ivan was definitely like a little kid sometimes. So quick to smile, and so easily pleased. Endearing.

Ivan's hands fell down to his shoulders.

It occurred to him suddenly that, if he had seen Ludwig curled in bed next to Ivan like a love-struck teenager, Gilbert probably would have slapped him across the face and then would have burst into tears.

_You're so stupid!_

A sudden burn of anger in his veins startled him, and it was with a pang that Ludwig realized that the thought of Gilbert was almost more of an annoyance now than it was a comfort. Dumb Gilbert. Gilbert always overreacted. So _jealous_.

Ivan's hands were kneading away the soreness in his shoulders, and he pushed Gilbert from his mind. What good would it do, to let Gilbert get under his skin? He wasn't here anymore. Those days had passed. Better to push Gilbert from his mind altogether from now on. Thinking about him was doing him no good.

Thumbs in the back of his neck. Comfort.

Finally, Ivan seemed to be finished, and grabbed his arm, pulling him up to his feet. When he looked down, he saw that the water was a murky, dull burgundy from the blood that had crept from his wounds.

Ivan placed a towel over his head and around his shoulders, and dried his hair while successfully pulling him steadily closer. He was so subtle and skilled at it that Ludwig didn't realize it was happening until he was pressed up against Ivan's chest, the soft fabric of Ivan's shirt pleasant against his skin. Ivan's unwavering, scorching gaze was almost as pleasant, and it was strange to be stared at in such a manner after so many years of Gilbert sheltering him from the world.

Gilbert's over-protectiveness would be his downfall to Ivan, in the end. Gilbert had never let him out to find himself and the world, and that must have made him vulnerable to someone like Ivan.

"Feel better now?"

"Yeah," he whispered, and it was true. He felt _so_ much better, clean and bathed and in Ivan's appreciative gaze, and suddenly his churning mind was calmer.

He felt better.

Ivan saw his tranquility, and reached out, taking Ludwig's face in his hands and leaning in, pressing his lips into Ludwig's forehead. He could have gone to sleep right there, in Ivan's arms. Something wrong with him, surely, but too late to take it back.

"That's good."

Ivan swooped away from him, leaving him chilly and exposed in the middle of the bathroom, and when he looked over, he saw Ivan rummaging through a tall wicker cabinet for fresh clothes.

His brow was furrowed as he looked through this section and that, and finally he pulled out a shirt, and stared at it with pursed lips. "This is too big," he grumbled aloud, but he threw it over Ludwig's shoulders nonetheless, and Ludwig allowed him to draw it together and connect the buttons. A pair of pants followed, and even though Ivan's shirt was all but engulfing him, clean clothes were more than appreciated.

Ivan's shirt.

How odd. Had thought of himself as Ivan's property, and it seemed more so suddenly, in Ivan's clothes. Felt somehow as if he had been conquered.

Ivan observed him, and no doubt felt the same way, for that smirk.

"You don't look so bad in my clothes!" he said, pleasantly, and reached down, grabbing Ludwig's hand and pulling him towards the door. "It doesn't hurt to walk, does it?"

He shook his head, even though it did, and followed behind Ivan, the cold tile welcome beneath his bare feet.

Ivan tugged him into the hall and led him around the corner and towards the door.

"Here, come with me. Let's go for a walk. Your legs need it."

A walk? Now? Of all times.

Ivan was pushing him to his absolute limits, testing him somehow, seeing how much he could take, how long his body could function under constant and intense duress. No rest, never, not for Ludwig, not until Ivan had finished up his analysis. Nearly died last night? Oh, well. Locked up for days with no food? Oh, well. Weak and half-dead and unable to walk properly? Oh, well, let's go for a fuckin' walk.

All of a sudden, as Ivan took his turn to dress Ludwig up in a bundle in every possible article of winter-wear, Ludwig just wanted to cry again.

Didn't want to go outside. Didn't want to walk. Wanted to huddle under the damn blankets in Ivan's arms and stay there for three months or so.

No choice.

Ivan finished dressing him, and when only their eyes were visible, Ivan reclaimed his hand and the door pushed open, and he was in the outside world. A moment of silence, and then it hit him like a bullet, the terrible pain in his head, and for an awful moment, he was frozen under the glaring winter sun. The light was far too bright.

Too bright. His eyes were not ready for this yet.

Wrenching his hand out of Ivan's, he covered his eyes and hung his head, stifling his cry of pain, and even though he didn't want to appear so weak in front of Ivan, it was just too bright.

Pain. Awful pain.

Everything was still for a second, and then Ivan's hands were on his wrists, pulling his arms down and exposing him back into the light.

"It won't hurt for long," Ivan said, sternly, and gave him a tug. "Come on, open your eyes. It won't get better if you won't open them. Can't stay in the dark forever, can you?"

No, not forever, but wouldn't just a few days be alright? He squinted his eyes so tightly then because the urge to cry was powerful, and he tried hard to push it away because Ivan was waiting.

Under Ivan's serious voice, he had no choice, and forced himself to open his eyes. The bright sunlight slowly faded into a hardly bearable glare, and even though his head hurt like _hell_ , Ivan looked pleased at his efforts, and that was enough to force him to keep his eyes open.

Passed another test, he supposed.

Ivan did not lead him down the path that led to town, and instead took him around the back, where the edge of the great forest loomed in the distance. The frozen river gleamed in the sun far beyond.

His head was pounding so hard that Ludwig honest to god thought his ears might start bleeding, but Ivan either didn't notice or didn't care about his pain, tugging him ever onward. Ludwig followed alongside him clumsily, unable to match Ivan's fast pace, and when he stumbled, Ivan looked down at him and leered, "If you can't keep up, I'll just have to carry you again."

Ludwig furrowed his brow and forced himself onward, even though, in the back of his mind...

He might not have minded. Not really. His feet _hurt_. Everything hurt. Wouldn't mind being carted then, as long as he could bury his face in Ivan's coat.

The forest was closer than ever, the clouded sky was still, and the quietness of this wilderness was alarming. Nothing seemed to move, and the trees seemed overwhelmed by the snow and even the sky itself. A mist hung down low over the ground.

Ivan's hand gripped his own.

They approached the tree line, and then Ivan stopped walking, and pulled Ludwig up to his side, staring out into the forest. He looked at home. Confident. Master of this domain.

Those woods. Made him shudder. Ludwig was glad that he had someone so brave and fearless next to him, because standing out here alone would have been terrifying. He had always loved the forests, but not this kind. This forest was endless. Wild. Not the kind of forest Ludwig was used to, one he had never encountered.

Shivering and shaking, Ludwig asked, voice low and weak and rough, "Are we going in there?"

Please, no. Didn't want to go in there. Ever.

Ivan's pale, sunlit eyes flitted up to the forest, white lashes fluttering in the breeze, and Ludwig felt a horrible rush of apprehension.

A forest like that.

Then Ivan quirked his head to the side, thoughtfully, and scoffed.

"There? Not you. Not yet, anyhow."

Ludwig exhaled in relief, and then Ivan reached out and placed a heavy hand on his back, and began to nudge him forward. He walked automatically, his boots crunching along in the snow as he trudged through it clumsily, and Ivan glided next to him, steps quiet and sure and skilled. He felt inadequate, next to polished Ivan, who knew this environment like the back of his hand. Out of place.

They walked until the trees were so close that he could smell the pine, and they towered above him, casting dark shadows upon the white. Ivan fell into one of the shadows, and his eyes went from silver to a dark grey. And then, in the wake of the forest, Ivan finally fell still, and stared out into the trees.

Everything was quiet.

A great tree stood before them, a tall pine with branches so broad that they spread out against the backdrop like huge fingers. Snow drifted silently down as the needles shifted, no doubt from birds flitting about above, and Ludwig shifted too, uneasily. It was _too_ quiet, and Ivan was gazing out into the stripes of trunks and snow so intensely that it was almost frightening. Shadows shifted deep within the forest.

Ivan's eyes were focused, razor-sharp. Didn't blink, although the weight of the ice on their lashes was ever increasing. He didn't blink, didn't move, as though he were in a silent battle with the wilderness itself.

Ludwig shuffled his feet, anxiously.

A long moment of nothing, and then Ivan finally whispered, softly and very calmly, without twitching a single muscle, "Have you ever seen a tiger, Ludwig?"

He almost didn't hear Ivan's low voice against the static in his head, and jumped in alarm.

"What?"

Ivan didn't look at him, his gaze unwavering, and he asked again, just as softly, "A tiger. Have you ever seen one?"

...huh? What, like in the zoo or something?

"No," he finally managed, with a furrowed brow, "I guess not."

Gilbert had never taken him to a zoo.

Ivan's eyes were ever focused and unblinking, and Ludwig cast his gaze to the trees, and tried to see what Ivan saw. He couldn't. He saw only snow, and tree trunks, and shadows and inconspicuous movements. Wisps of drifting snow. A fluttering of wings. White and brown and every shade of grey. The mist hanging low.

The wind started blowing, the tree branches swayed eerily, and Ivan said, against the breeze, "If you turn your back on a tiger, it will jump right out and grab you by the neck before you even take a step. It won't let go. It won't back down. It's not afraid of you, because it knows it's stronger than you. Faster. Smarter."

Ludwig shuddered, for something beyond the cold, and now his eyes scanned the trees rapidly, because Ivan saw _something_ out there, alright, and Ludwig couldn't really stand knowing that there was something watching him and that he couldn't see it.

Fear.

Ivan reached up and replaced that heavy hand upon his back, and continued. Yet still, he stared into the trees, not twitching his gaze for anything.

"It will take you, if you turn your back. But, if you look it in the eyes, it stops. It looks back at you. If you watch it, and don't look away, it knows you're not afraid of it. And after a while... It will go."

Ivan was calm and confident, but _he_ was not, and no matter how many times Ludwig looked over the same stretch of forest again and again and again, he just couldn't see it. Couldn't see it. He shifted his weight nervously, as he struggled with the flight response in his veins. Wanted to get the hell out of there suddenly.

Ivan's hand wouldn't allow him to turn around, though, and Ivan must have felt him shifting about this and way and that, for he suddenly leaned in and whispered, casually, "Calm down. You do everything so quickly. Just slow down, and look. You'll see it."

Ivan's left hand flew up, and he flinched mechanically, but there was no harm. Instead, Ivan's hand fell above Ludwig's eyes, casting him into merciful darkness, and when Ivan whispered, "Calm down," in his ear, Ludwig took a breath, and everything slowed.

Dark.

Ivan's hand was strong, and without his vision, Ludwig could suddenly hear the shifts within the forests, the whistling of the breeze within the pine branches. He could smell the snow and the trees and something else, a musky warmth that emanated from the wood. He could feel the cold and Ivan's sturdiness beside of him, and his racing mind began to steady.

The first stir of calm.

His breathing deepened. He was still and silent. He could smell Ivan, so close next to him. The cold air stung his lungs.

Slow. Calm.

"Look."

A movement, and Ivan's hand withdrew, and Ludwig was momentarily blinded by the white sun that glowed out from behind the clouds, but then his pupils constricted, and he could see the forest again. And something else. It was almost automatic, how quickly he could see it this time, under Ivan's sure guidance. He inhaled, startled.

He could _see_ it.

Out ahead, standing unmoving in the midst of the snow drifts and trees, was a great tiger, unblinking and unflinching, its orange fur covered and matted with snow. It was frightening, how focused its golden eyes were as it stared into Ivan's. Its paws were braced in the drifts, tail straight out behind it, and it didn't even appear to be breathing, looking more like a statue than a living animal. Immobile. Blending in so well with the forest. Ludwig could see, just from the look in its eyes, that it would have liked nothing more than to have leapt out and dragged one of them into the woods, but it was caught under Ivan's eyes.

It was not afraid. Neither was Ivan.

Ludwig stood there, caught up with awe in this deadly staring contest.

Two beautiful, piercing sets of eyes, battling it out for dominance. One golden, round and peering out from behind gleaming fur. One grey, lidded and sharp and gazing from beneath long white lashes.

In the end, it was the tiger who broke the stare, with an irritated twitch of its tail. A lift of its head in annoyance, one final look, and then suddenly it turned and retreated into the mighty trunks, and in a second was lost to sight within the camouflage of the forest.

Finally, Ivan's shoulders relaxed, and he turned to Ludwig with a smile.

"Did you see it?"

Ludwig nodded, dumbfounded, and was stunned by Ivan's control, even over nature itself.

Cheerily, Ivan merely said, "Neat, huh?"

Neat? As if it was nothing. Like Ivan had seen a house-cat. No one, _nothing_ , looked into Ivan's eyes and came out of the gaze victorious. He had learned that lesson himself, and now, as Ivan stared him down, he just couldn't seem to move.

"You shouldn't be scared of it. As long as you can look it in the eye, you're not in danger."

Ludwig nodded again, dumbly, and Ivan reached out and grabbed his hand, and tugged him back.

Ah, fuck. Without Ivan, he would have gotten eaten. In a second. Best to stay close to Ivan. Everything out here was determined to kill him, it seemed. Even the wildlife.

"Here, look, I wanted to show you something."

Ivan tugged him back through the snow, until a mighty pine stood a fair distance ahead, and suddenly Ivan was directly behind him, strong arms wrapped around his chest and pressing heavily into his back. Ludwig stood still, as usual, and didn't pull away. Ivan's warmth was comforting behind.

"Have you ever fired a gun, Ludwig?"

A coldness in his palms, and he remembered Gilbert standing behind him, just like this, and he remembered Gilbert putting the gun in his hands and lifting his arms. But...

"No."

"Don't worry, I'll show you how."

Because Gilbert had never let him actually pull the trigger, saying that he wasn't old enough and that it was too dangerous, and he might hurt himself.

A flash of light in the white sunlight, and suddenly Ivan had thrust something hard in his hands, and when Ludwig looked down, he felt a lurch of nervousness in his stomach. Ivan's gun was within his fingers— _Ivan's_ gun—and he couldn't help but shudder, because this was the same gun that had pressed into his forehead not so long ago, the same gun that had killed that woman, and yet now Ivan was allowing him to hold it.

As if Ivan just _trusted_ Ludwig so that he knew his own weapon would not get turned against him. How strange, trusting him like that.

When Ivan's hands covered his own and drew them slowly upward until the gun was level, just like Gilbert had done all those years ago, it never even crossed Ludwig's mind to just turn around and aim the gun at Ivan. Never even thought about it. Never contemplated it.

The gun felt heavy in his hands. He hadn't held a gun for so long.

"It's not so hard. Here, look, just keep your arms straight, and put your fingers here... That's right. Good! Now, take your aim, and keep both of your eyes open."

The last time he had held a gun, Gilbert had startled him so that he had dropped it. He couldn't hold it straight. Gilbert had laughed. Agitated and almost embarrassed, he shifted his weight, fretting that Ivan would sense a certain weakness within him.

Ivan didn't seem to mind his anxiousness, and held his arms steady.

"Don't look so worried! Here, I've got you! Just find your aim. It's not so hard."

He had dropped the gun before.

This time, with Ivan's strong hands gripping his own, Ivan's chest pressed against his back, and Ivan's warm voice whispering heavily in his ear, he stayed firm and steady. Ivan's thumbs traced circles over the back of his hands as he clenched the steel.

"Look at you," Ivan crooned, their heads pressed together, "You're a natural. You're so good at everything. Perfect aim." Ivan's hands tightened around his own, and Ludwig could only fall back against him, breathless and feeling his heart racing in what could have been pride. Stupid, because Ivan was aiming, not him.

Felt far away, hypnotized, as if that tiger was back and this time staring _him_ down, and when Ivan suddenly barked, "Fire!" he did, without even thinking. His finger squeezed the trigger without even a second of hesitation, because Ivan had given him an order. The shot was stronger than he had imagined, as the explosion of gunpowder cut through the silence of the outdoors like a bomb, and the force of it sent a tingle through his frozen hands.

It made his head split open in pain, the sound. It was louder than he had always imagined it would be. It felt different, too, somehow, than he had thought it would. More horrible. More frightening. Didn't care much for it.

The bullet struck the tree, straight in the center, and even though he knew it was Ivan's steady hands above his own that made the aim so perfect, he could not stop the bristling of ego when Ivan's eager voice was in his ear again.

"Great! That's good! Again."

He fired again.

The second bullet hit right beside the first, and he knew now what to expect, and braced his feet accordingly. And by the time third and fourth bullets were unloaded, he didn't even notice that Ivan's hands had dropped down to his waist, and he was aiming and firing completely on his own.

Ivan was watching him. He didn't want to falter.

The fifth and sixth bullets sank into the bark, as Ivan's hands wrapped around him and held him steady, and Ludwig stared at his target and almost smiled. Not one miss. Was Ivan proud of him? Oh, god, Ivan must have been proud of him. Please, be proud. A miss might have sent him back into that room. Hadn't missed—

"One day," Ivan murmured as he buried his face in the crook of Ludwig's neck, "if you keep that up, _you'll_ be the one protecting _me_."

Him? Protect Ivan? The thought was almost absurd, comical, and he could hardly envision himself standing at Ivan's side, walking beside of him loyally wherever he went, ready and willing to shoot any dissenters with a calculated coolness, aim never wavering. Like a bodyguard. How frightening.

Did Ivan trust him so? Maybe. Did he trust himself so? No.

...he would let Ivan down, in the end.

For a moment, doubting himself and feeling suddenly morose, his arms fell, and the gun felt too heavy in his hands.

Insecurity. His curse.

"I can't," was his low response, and he lowered his eyes to the snow, because he was _nothing_ out here in this wilderness, nobody. How could he ever protect Ivan if he couldn't even protect himself? "I can't."

Hadn't ever been anyone.

Ivan was silent, and then he suddenly his voice was sharp again.

"If I say you can do it," he began, sternly, "then you can do it. Here." He took the gun away and opened the barrel, tossing aside the empty shells, and reached into his pocket, taking out six more. And as he loaded them in, never releasing Ludwig from the circle of his arms, he added, "You'll get even better at it, in time. Remember what I said? If you couldn't handle it, I wouldn't have ever brought you out here in the first place. I don't make mistakes. I said you can do it, so you will."

No doubt.

Ivan shoved the gun back in his hands and forced his arms back upright. "Come on, just like before. Keep both of your eyes open."

Ludwig furrowed his brow and took his aim, and as Ivan's voice filled his ears with encouragement, he fired.

Why was Ivan teaching him this? So that he could take him out into the world with him, without having to keep an eye on him every second? So that he would have a second view of his surroundings? Just because it amused him? Because he liked risk and danger? Surely it had crossed Ivan's mind that teaching him such a thing could be _dangerous_.

Did Ivan really trust him so? Would he end up using this gun to keep Ivan safe?

"You're perfect, you know, you really are. You don't ever let me down."

The bullets struck the tree with dull thuds.

"We make such a good team, don't you think?"

A team?

Him and Ivan. Strange.

"We look out for each other. You and me. I'll protect you, no matter what."

You and me. A team.

_We'll always be together._

The clouds burst above and snow began to fall, and as the wind picked up, Ivan clenched him tightly to keep him steady, and it occurred to Ludwig, randomly, that he didn't miss Gilbert as much as he had before. Not really. He could live without Gilbert, after all, it seemed.

Every day, Gilbert seemed to drift out of his head more and more.

And this time, with Ivan's heavy hands propping up his own, he had not dropped the gun.

Ivan trusted him.

He was probably better off without Gilbert.

He didn't drop the gun.


	25. Through the Door

**Chapter 25**

**Through the Door**

It wasn't such a big deal.

It was just a simple relocation. Not even a difficult one. It wasn't like he was moving to a different house, or even switching numerous possessions from one bedroom to another. All he was going to do was sleep in a different bed. It wasn't a big deal.

So why did he feel so sick?

It had been a long day.

Could still feel the gun heavy in his hands, long after it had gone. Could still see the tiger in his mind, long after it had gone. And he could still sense Ivan's hand over his eyes, long after it had gone.

Somehow, he felt back in the dark.

Night was coming, and Ludwig was now forced to look back and regret upon his precipitous decision to 'move into', as Ivan had put it, Ivan's room. Didn't want to be alone, yeah, and he had sincerely meant it when he had agreed, but with every minute that ticked by, anxiety was building up in his chest. Oh, why had he ever agreed to such a thing?

The sun was getting ever lower, and as he sat now at the kitchen table in between Ivan and Irina, the mounting dread squirming in his stomach was so strong that he could not even take up his coffee. They did not seem to notice his distress.

His chest hurt. The stitches were starting to itch. Did that mean they were ready to come out?

He glanced at Ivan out of the corner of his eye, and Ivan smiled. Waiting. Anticipating.

Ludwig was terrified of being alone, but was somehow more terrified of being in Ivan's bed.

It was too late now. He could not back out of something that he had agreed to. Not with Ivan. Ivan did not allow such relapses. Ivan didn't make mistakes; Ludwig was not expected to, either.

Ivan stood up abruptly, and Ludwig somehow knew it was time. Ivan twitched his head for Ludwig to follow, and he did, feeling so ill. Cold and clammy. He trailed behind Ivan through the halls, like a dog, and as he went he looked around, helplessly, for Toris. Hoping that Toris would appear out of nowhere and come to his rescue and tell Ivan that maybe it wasn't such a good idea for them to share a room, that maybe it had been too soon.

Toris just wasn't anywhere to be found, and finally the sun was gone.

Why wasn't Toris ever there when Ludwig needed him? Toris never helped him. Nowhere in sight.

His head hurt.

He smelled faintly of gunpowder. Couldn't stand the smell. Made him think of a woman in a blue dress.

Ivan glanced over at him, and asked, "Ready for bed? It's a bit early, but you must be tired."

Leaping on a slight delay, Ludwig asked, weakly, "Can we walk around a bit?"

A twitch of irritation in Ivan's brow.

Ludwig added, weakly, "I was in bed so long. It's...nice to walk."

It wasn't. Hurt like hell, but he was afraid to walk into Ivan's room, because he felt as if he would never leave it again.

Still, Ivan's brow came up, he looked a bit calmer, and he lifted his chin and started walking aimlessly through the halls. Ludwig followed him, and the entire while they walked his mind whirred away. Trying to think of a way out.

Couldn't think of one.

The hour grew late, his chest ached with the effort, and yet every time Ivan asked him if he was ready to call it a day, Ludwig would only shake his head stubbornly and force himself to move forward. He was ready to drop, honestly. The dread in his stomach fueled him on. The little voice of warning in his head told him to put this off for as long as possible. His common sense, however, was alerting him that Ivan looked more and more annoyed every time Ludwig refused to go to bed.

Not safe either way, and Ivan's patience was not endless.

As soon as that thought passed his mind, it was almost instant. Before him, Ivan fell to a halt, so suddenly that Ludwig nearly crashed into his back, and when he looked over his shoulder, the sternness in his pale eyes was a clear indicator that the time had come.

"It's been a long day," Ivan said, pointedly, as though this game of cat and mouse had suddenly bored him, and as Ludwig's headache intensified, he added, strictly, "You're tired. You need to rest. Come on. Follow me."

Oh, god. There was no getting out of it.

What could he do? He would occupy Ivan's bed tonight.

Giving in to his fear and without really thinking, Ludwig said, lowly, "I'm not so tired. Not really."

He pressed too far.

There was a silence as Ivan turned around to face him, and his look was so severe and his voice so stern that Ludwig wondered if the ice had broken beneath him as he snapped, angrily, "Who was asking you? I stayed with you all day, didn't I? You asked me to, so I did. I don't have time to waste like you do. I do everything for you. You don't have to worry about anything. _I_ have responsibilities. I have _work_ to do, and when I put it off, it's an annoyance. The army never sleeps. Everything's so easy for you, you know! I take care of you. I told you I had work to do but you wanted me to stay, so I stayed. Now it's your turn to do what I say. I don't have any more time to spare. Stop being childish and come on."

Then Ivan turned and stalked off down the halls, and for a horrible moment, Ludwig could only stand there.

His heart was hammering. Head aching. Nausea.

Childish. The words _stung_ , and the dread in his stomach was replaced with something worse.

Guilt.

Because it was true, the things Ivan had said. Ivan did do everything here. Ivan took care of everyone, and he did not ask for much in return. Only that everyone listened to him when he spoke; that they did whatever he told them to do. And he remembered that moment in the morning, when Ivan had made to leave him, and hadn't Ludwig been the one who had asked him to stay? Maybe he _was_ being selfish. Ivan did everything for him. He was being disrespectful, perhaps.

The guilt mingled with a strange terror. Was Ivan angry? He had sworn to himself that he would never make Ivan angry again.

God—

Finding his feet, Ludwig struggled onwards after Ivan, trying to catch up to him. Ivan had already made a turn and was scaling the staircase, halfway up the top, and Ludwig could only bolt after him, spurred on by adrenaline and fear.

If Ivan was angry...

Couldn't be angry, oh, god, couldn't be angry. Couldn't be in _there_ again, not again. Couldn't be angry.

Dizzy and desperate to prevent a dark calamity, Ludwig finally reached Ivan, several steps above him, and managed to grab the end of his sleeve. Everything fell still, and Ivan stopped where he was. Ludwig waited, breathlessly, fingers tangled in the fabric of Ivan's coat and fearing that it was far too late.

He had just gotten out of that room. He did not want to go back. Please, please, couldn't be angry—

Finally, Ivan turned back to him, and the eyes that he had expected to be dark were actually quite calm. Ivan's cool smile returned, as though nothing out of the ordinary had just occurred, as if harsh words had never been uttered, and when he spoke this time, his voice was soft and pretty.

"Are you alright?"

Ludwig stood there, immobile and terrified, and then he nodded, dumbly. Confusion crept up.

His head hurt.

Hadn't Ivan just been angry?

That little voice was screeching something in the back of his mind, and he struggled to make out its warning; he grasped, however vaguely, that he was being played, being conditioned. Hadn't this been how Gilbert had gotten his way? Calm one minute and then so angry the next, shouting and screaming until Ludwig had just let him do as he pleased in exhaustion. It was just one of the scare tactics of people like _them_ , wasn't it? They weren't really angry (well, maybe Gilbert had been sometimes), and to get their way they wielded anger as easily as someone else wielded a gun. Anger, or guilt-tripping, or blaming everything on _him_.

It was all the same. Emotional manipulation.

Ivan hadn't _really_ been angry. He had just wanted Ludwig to do what he said.

"You look so tired," Ivan suddenly whispered, and when he reached out and placed a firm palm down on the top of his head, Ludwig shut the voice down and tried to smile as the haze in his mind returned.

Who cared if Ivan's anger had been an act or not? It was still frightening. It still had consequences. Didn't matter.

Ivan took his hand, and gripped. "Come on. You should lay down."

This time Ludwig didn't protest, far too scared to do so, and allowed Ivan to drag him off to where he would, as the voice of warning was stifled by the mists of Ivan's presence. Ivan pulled him along at his side, and as they roamed the second story, Ivan suddenly leaned his head down, and murmured in his ear, "I'm sorry I shouted at you."

Before, such a comment would have made him scoff, perhaps, and think, 'No you're not!'

But his head hurt, and he was so relieved that Ivan was not angry that all he could do was squeeze Ivan's hand and whisper, weakly, "It's my fault. Sorry."

Sorry.

It _had_ been his fault. He had been inconsiderate.

Ivan stared down at him with a smile and an expression that looked like a mixture of pleasure and triumph, and he said nothing more.

The halls were dim, lit up by wall lamps whose bulbs were far too weak, flickering in the last throes of life, and the shadows cast around were eerie. This house was so huge, and so empty. How could even _Ivan_ know everything that went on in here? Maybe the house had a mind of its own. The shadows appeared and disappeared with the flickering of the bulbs. Ivan didn't seem daunted by the low light and the chilly air, and when they rounded another corner, there was a short hallway, and at the end of it stood an unassuming door.

He felt faint.

Ivan's room. His room.

... _their_ room.

He shuddered, but Ivan didn't seem to notice, and the door had suddenly been pushed open.

A moment of darkness, and then Ivan flipped on the light. And somehow Ivan was suddenly behind him, and pushed him through the doorway, and into the room that he would now call his own.

He tried to take it in with a blurry mind.

Maps.

This room was far larger than the others he had seen. The ceiling was high and arched. A huge chandelier hung above, and he could not help but wonder whose frightening job it was to climb up a ladder and change those light bulbs when they died (Toris, no doubt). The curtains were red. The carpet was white. A desk was off to the left, covered in folders and papers and a cup full of pens. In the middle of the floor was an expensive rug, Persian maybe. The four-post bed was straight in front of the door, up against the wall. The sheets were red. The thin curtains that fell down around the bed were white. Above the bed, pinned to that cloth that covered the posts, there hung a huge map. So that Ivan could stare up at it and fall asleep owning the world, no doubt.

On every wall, actually, there were maps. Different continents, different countries, states and counties.

Rather overwhelming.

The closet stood off to the right. The door was shut.

He could see Ivan's shadow looming out against his own. He should not be here.

The bed stood before him.

A wave of fright washed over him. Dread. Those maps, for whatever reason, scared him, if only because there were so many. He took a hesitant step backwards. The adrenaline was making him sick.

He should never have come here. Silent danger. He took another step back.

Get out.

Another step backwards.

It wasn't safe here. He was on the verge of flight.

Go.

His foot lifted.

Then Ivan slammed the bedroom door shut behind him.

He inhaled so hard that it hurt his chest, jumping into the air and whirling around so fast that he was afraid he would fall, flooded with a horrible panic that he had never known, because, oh god, if Ivan had shut the door and left him alone with only his own fragile mind as company—

Not alone.

Ivan was still there. He stood before the closed door, arms loose at his sides and smiling amicably, as though all was right with the world, eyes cool and casual. Even though Ludwig _knew_ , somewhere inside, that it was just another scare tactic, like Ivan's anger, even though he knew that he was being bullied and manipulated, god help him, it worked.

"Do you like it?"

A cold sweat broke out on his brow, and Ludwig was so nauseous that he was _sure_ he would faint, but he smiled palely and weakly at Ivan nonetheless, and managed to whisper, "It's... It's pretty."

It worked. His head was spinning.

The door was shut. Ivan stood before it.

Dizzy and dazed, Ludwig just smiled then, because he didn't know what else to do. Could barely breathe. Anxiety was something he was becoming accustomed to. No more pills. Had to learn to manage it alone.

The maps loomed out. Long, bold, black marks were scribbled over most of them, creating lines that cut through borders and sometimes fell on top of towns and cities. There were occasional scribbles in Russian. Thumbtacks marked destinations and maybe targets. On some of the maps, there were great black 'X's over little cities, towns, villages. Ludwig could only imagine what had happened to _those_ towns.

A calendar sat between two maps. He squinted to make out the date.

January the fourth.

He lowered his brow in thought. Only January? Barely the new year. He had thought it would be so much later.

Ludwig turned to Ivan and asked, with a tremor, "How long was I gone?"

Gone from the world, lost in oblivion, and Ivan knew what he meant.

"Eleven days," was the cool response, and he felt faint. Horror.

Eleven _days_?

It had felt like _months_. Months. Not eleven days.

Ivan snorted at his expression, reached out a hand and ran in down Ludwig's cheek, and said, "A record. I knew you were brave, but I didn't think you would last that long. You impressed me. And I know you're tired for it. So. Go lay down."

Oh.

His heart was racing again, as Ivan began to push him gently backwards towards the bed, and that panic was back. Because the last time he had laid down in a bed with Ivan, something that should have been simple, there had suddenly been the barrel of a gun against his forehead, and who could say if this time would be any different?

He dug his heels in the carpet, and tried to stop himself. Ivan stared at him, and then tilted his head.

"What? Aren't you going to lay down?"

He couldn't seem to find his voice, and something in Ivan's eyes was sharpening.

"You don't want to sleep here?"

He didn't know why he was so frightened to lay down in that bed.

He couldn't answer.

Ivan stopped in his tracks, and his smile was almost a leer.

"What's wrong?"

Helplessly, Ludwig looked over his shoulder back at the bed, and Ivan must have sensed his trepidation and nervousness, and acted upon them, taking charge like he always did. Suddenly he had changed direction, and now they were parallel with the bed rather than in front of it. Ludwig was frozen under Ivan's gaze. He knew that he should submit, because it was just a bed, and resisting only brought worse things. Such worse things.

He just couldn't find his voice.

"What?" Ivan asked, almost breathlessly, as he reached out and grabbed up Ludwig's collar within his hands, "What's wrong? Huh? What is it?"

Ludwig didn't realize that with every word, Ivan was pushing him steadily backwards.

"What's wrong? Are you scared or something? What? It's just a bed. Didn't you say you wanted to sleep here?"

Ivan's leer was almost knowing. They fell back another step.

"Well, then. Here's what we'll do. If you don't want to sleep in the bed..." A hardness from behind. Ivan pushed him back until his shoulder blades dug into the wall. "...then you can sleep in the closet. How about that? Does that sound alright?"

Ivan's voice was gentle.

"Is that alright?"

The closet?

Dumbly, Ludwig looked back, and realized that he was pushed up against the closet door, not the wall. Ivan was pressing him against it mercilessly, and before Ludwig really knew what was happening, Ivan had reached beneath him and grabbed the handle of the door. A swift movement, too fast for his foggy mind to comprehend, and the door was pulled open. And then he realized that Ivan was pressing him back again, still holding his collar.

Darkness fell over him.

He was dangling in the threshold, held up by Ivan's strong hands in his collar, half in and half out of the closet, and Ivan's eyes were churning with what could have been excitement. Tormenting Ludwig like that seemed to give him a kick.

"Well? What's it going to be?"

Ludwig looked over his shoulder, into the small, dark, murky closet, and shuddered. He couldn't bear to be cast in there. Woulda died the very second that Ivan had shut the door.

"Oh, come on," Ivan coaxed, gently, "Is that really where you want to be?"

The closet was dark. Who knew what lay in wait within. In the darkness. A shift of shadows. Reaching up in a moment of godawful anxiety, Ludwig grabbed Ivan's warm wrists within his hands, and shook his head.

Ivan's smile loosened.

"See, that wasn't so hard, was it?" he asked, and Ludwig could only shake his head again, and smile, wearily.

...it hadn't been so hard. An obvious choice. He should have realized it immediately.

Ivan's hands unclenched from his collar and fell down to his shoulders, and when strong fingers dug into his muscles in a strangely comforting vice, Ludwig slumped in something that almost felt like submission. A strange feeling, and yet somehow it was liberating, to let someone else be in charge, and he tried to relax. If he could just relax, everything would be so much easier. So much easier to submit to Ivan.

Ivan was watching him expectantly, and finally Ludwig managed to whisper, "Sorry."

Just like that, he was ripped away from the looming void of that dark closet, and when Ivan reached back and shut the door, quietly, Ludwig suppressed his sigh of relief, and was grateful. Too close. He was still being too careless. He would have to learn more quickly what could and could not be done. Resistance was not accepted. Defiance was not permitted. Hesitation was not tolerated.

Ivan expected immediate submission, and Ludwig was damn close to giving it to him.

"Don't worry about it," Ivan crooned in his ear, hands falling heavily on the back of his neck, "It's alright. I just can't stay angry with you. Maybe because I love you so much. My weakness."

The words were smooth in his ears, and the anxiety was evaporating.

Ivan was patient.

Ludwig didn't open his mouth again, for fear of saying the wrong thing, as Ivan led him to the edge of the bed and forced him gently to sit, and from there, everything passed in a dull haze. Ludwig crawled under the blanket, laying down in utter exhaustion, and he watched through blurry eyes as Ivan turned off the overhead light, flipped on the lamp on the end table, and after grabbing up a thick stack of papers, Ivan settled in next to him, resting back against the headboard. As Ludwig began to drift, Ivan took up a pen and set to the paperwork he had neglected to complete earlier.

And that was it. What had he been afraid of?

The great map hung from overhead. The closet door was shut.

He fell asleep, as Ivan's pen scratched the paper.

He didn't dream.

Yet he could _feel_ the looming darkness of the closet, even as he slept. He awoke hours later in the black of night at a movement in the dark, in a panic. But it was only Ivan finally laying down to sleep, and when Ludwig's eyes adjusted to the moonlight, he stared at the closet door.

It was still shut.

Ivan threw an arm over his chest, pulled him in, and he didn't move as Ivan whispered in his ear until he drifted off. Ludwig found it hard to go back to sleep as Ivan's soft words ran through his head.

_We'll always be together._

As Ivan slept away, Ludwig only stared up at that great map up above, tracing the rivers and the roads that cut across the landscape, and no matter how hard he tried not to, his eyes always fell back to Berlin.

Berlin. Berlin was just a memory now. This was the closest he would ever be to Berlin again; staring at a map. From this bed. Well. At least he could see that dot that he had once called home, and take some kind of quiet comfort in it until he fell asleep. He could memorize the roads, even though he would never again use them. He could envision his street, even though he would never see it again. The forest beyond.

The longing ache in his heart was painful.

Berlin.

Ivan slept so easily. Without a care. Confidence and self-satisfaction were easy to fall asleep to. Self-doubt and apprehension were not, and neither was longing. But, after hours of restlessness, Ludwig slept again too, held up inescapably against Ivan's chest. It was alright. It was _nice_ , even, somehow, to have someone holding him after so long, after all of those years in solitude in the West. He turned at some point in the night, without realizing it, and embraced Ivan around the neck. Ivan's grip upon him tightened. In a way, held like that, he almost felt _safe._

Safe. Couldn't remember the last time he had felt safe.

It was nice.

The night passed uneventfully, and when the morning broke, he awoke to the sound of Ivan's pen. When he opened his eyes, Ivan was sitting there next to him, waiting patiently for him to come around. He was glad that he did not awake alone. Ivan was always with him.

He realized suddenly that _he_ was making everything stressful and difficult. Not Ivan. All he needed to do was relax and cooperate, and he wouldn't have to worry about being held in between light and darkness, in the threshold of some door. He was making things difficult. Ivan didn't ask so much of him, not really. Maybe he _had_ been being selfish. He would try to be less difficult.

Ivan glanced down at him between papers, and finally asked, voice husky, "Are you ready to get up, or do you need more beauty sleep? It's almost noon."

Abashed, he lifted himself up at the waist, and squinted his eyes in the pale sunlight that streamed in, chest heavy with sleep.

"Sorry," he rasped, and Ivan was smiling.

He never used to sleep in so late.

...it seemed that lately, all he had been saying was, 'sorry, sorry, sorry'.

A heavy hand fell atop his head, and Ivan only said, easily, "Don't worry. You can sleep as long as you want. I don't mind sitting here with you, really I don't. I love spending time with you. I can't think of anywhere else I'd rather be."

Ludwig smiled then, too, because it felt _good_ to have someone say that they didn't mind sitting there with him, no matter how boring he was or how silent. Gilbert never stayed.

Gilbert? Strange. He hadn't thought about Gilbert at all the night before. Not even once. He had thought about how much he missed _Berlin_ , sure. But not Gilbert.

...strange.

He shrugged it off, and when Ivan stood up and extended a hand, he took it, and went about the day as normally as could ever be expected. It was better not to think about Gilbert at all.

The day passed. Ivan's mood was good. By the time the sun was setting again, his mood wasn't so bad either. He could make things easier. All he had to do was try.

The second night, when it came, was just the same as the first. Ivan sat up and worked silently until Ludwig fell asleep, and then Ivan came to bed hours later and threw an arm over his chest, and they slept. The third night passed the same. With every calm night, Ludwig was grateful that Ivan was acclimating him to this room, to this bed, to this _world_ , so patiently. When he did what Ivan wanted, everything went so easily and so smoothly that it was almost astonishing.

So it _had_ been him, after all, that had been the difficult one.

Everything went on without great event, until the calendar marked the seventh.

And then when he woke up in the morning light, it was Irina, and not Ivan, who was sitting there on the bed next to him, watching him with a fond smile until he came into consciousness.

A Saturday morning.

"Good morning!" Irina chirped, merrily, as soon as she saw him looking up at her, and when Ludwig cleared his throat and responded politely, pulling the covers up to his chin in slight embarrassment, he was surprised at himself.

Because he was disappointed that it wasn't Ivan who was there with him.

Irina saw him looking over this way and that, and her smile was bright.

"He's gone. He went into town to get some things for tonight."

Tonight? What was happening tonight?

Anxiety.

Before he could ask, she held out her hand, and said, "Here! This is for you! I thought I'd give it to you early. I'm forgetful sometimes, so its better to do it now before I start drinking." She laughed, loudly, and he sat up, staring down.

She held out a book.

"What's this for?" he finally managed, and she sent him a strange look, and shook the book in the air, waiting for him to take it.

"It's your Christmas present, silly! What did you think?"

Christmas? He had missed Christmas.

Staring down at the book in her hand, he asked, dumbly, "What's today?"

She smiled, cheerily, oblivious to his confusion.

"The seventh, of course!"

As he furrowed his brow, she stared at him, and then she suddenly laughed again.

"Oh! That's right! You guys do it differently, don't you? Ivan told me, but, like I said, I'm forgetful sometimes! I'm sorry. Well, Christmas is on the seventh here, so that's why. And we get to have two New Year's days! Isn't that great? Of course, sometimes Ivan drinks too much, but then again, I do too, so I guess I shouldn't say anything."

Her fast words and loud voice and casual smile were almost too much for Ludwig to understand, and finally, he reached out and took the book.

So, then, tonight was when the Russians would celebrate their Christmas, and Ivan was out in town. His stomach squirmed with nervousness. He wasn't accustomed to normal Christmases. Usually, his Christmases ended up with a drunk Gilbert erupting into an argument with a tipsy Roderich. And when they were _both_ drunk? Forget about it. Screaming. Shrieking.

God only knew how _this_ one would go.

"Do you like it?"

Finally, Ludwig looked down at the book, and his brow lowered.

A Russian dictionary.

A thoughtful gesture, no doubt, and how could she have known that such a gift would just be another silent blow to his independence? A painful reminder that Russia was his home now, not Germany, and if he really wanted to fit in, if he _really_ wanted to survive, to move onward, then he had no _choice_ but to learn Russian, a language that had once made him shudder just to hear it spoken.

But he smiled weakly at her nonetheless, and said, "Thank you," and was ashamed, because he had nothing for her. "Sorry. I didn't know, or I would have..."

He trailed off, as she held out arms.

"It's okay. I'll accept a hug."

He sat there for a moment, embarrassed, but he finally fell forward, and granted her a quick embrace. He pulled back after a second, awkwardly. She didn't seem to care at all about his awkwardness, and suddenly she had pulled out a pair of scissors from her pocket and snipped them threateningly in the air.

"Get up," she said, as she leaned towards him. "You need a haircut. Badly."

He obeyed, knowing that it was true, his damn hair all in his eyes and already down the back of his neck. He fell into the chair near the desk, holding the book to his chest, and as she hovered above him, snipping here and there and speaking aloud about nothing, he opened the first page.

A pang.

Seeing those strange letters on the paper, he was filled with something that felt like a mixture of despair and resignation, sadness, and as strands of platinum fell atop the page, he brushed them away, and began to study.

She seemed pleased. He felt somewhat ill.

As she groomed him, he would place his finger upon a syllable every so often, and as she leaned over his shoulder and pronounced it for him, he would fumble over it, and with every terrible attempt, he was steadily losing heart. The tones and vowels felt so strange on his tongue. It was difficult.

She saw his look of defeat, maybe, and prodded his shoulder gently, saying, "Don't worry! It looks scary at first, but it'll get easier after a while." As an afterthought, and seeing his look of hopelessness, she added, "You know, Ivan never thought he would learn German. He used to sit there and look at the book like that, too. Some words are so _long_ , and when you were sick, he called me over sometimes and made me pronounce everything for him." She laughed, and ruffled his now neatly clipped hair. "That's about the only thing I could ever help him with. He's so much smarter, but he used to hate Germans so he never wanted to learn. But he did. So he could talk to you."

Ludwig could feel the warm flush on his cheeks, and the thought of Ivan sitting and studying German with such determination just to speak to _him_ was somehow thrilling. Ivan, who hated Germans.

Well, Ivan had done it for him. He could at least try.

Spurred on by the desire to prove himself, he kept the book close to his chest the entire morning, as Irina dragged him around the house, and every spare moment he tried to memorize a new letter.

He could do this.

The morning passed into the afternoon, Irina stuck with him every second (had Ivan told her he did not want to be alone?) and finally, after days of not being in sight, Toris reappeared, as if from thin air.

Ah, Toris. Where had he been?

When Irina led Ludwig back to the kitchen for lunch, Toris was already in there, that boy at his side, and they sat at the table, a great bowl of water sitting there between them. When they saw them there, they looked up, and Toris smiled at Irina as he greeted her quite easily. Then Toris' eyes fell on Ludwig, and his voice was much lower and somewhat unfriendly, as he said, "Hey."

Ludwig gave a weak, "Hi," and felt a bit hurt as Irina went over and fell into conversation with Toris, who seemed to be ignoring his presence.

What had he done now? Toris, always so unhelpful. Always angry with him, it seemed.

A crack caught his attention, and he looked over to the boy, who was shelling walnuts. The empty shells were handed over to Toris, who aligned them in a neat little row. Curious, Ludwig came over, even though Toris was in an aggressive mood. Out of the corner of his eye, Toris watched him creeping forward with lidded eyes and crinkled nose.

"I haven't seen you for a while, Toris," Ludwig tried, tentatively.

Toris sent him a quick glance, and snipped, "I've been around."

"Oh."

Ludwig furrowed his brow, and lowered his eyes to the floor, feeling stupid.

Irina pulled out a seat for him, and when he sat, she supplied conversation that Toris was denying. "Here, look, Ludwig! This will be nice for you! This is something that Toris does every Christmas. It's pretty neat! It's kind of like fortune-telling, I guess." She pointed to the little walnut shells, and then to the water, and added, "See? Each shell is like a little boat! You put a little candle in it and set it in the water, and if it makes it to the other side, then you'll have good luck all year!"

Toris rolled his eyes, and took up a long taper candle, cutting it into small portions with a knife. From the look on his face, he was probably envisioning Ludwig there beneath his knife.

There were four shells, though, and Irina suddenly said to Toris, a bit pointedly, "Don't you think you need one more?"

Toris glanced up, catching Ludwig's eye, and it was apparent to Ludwig that Toris had had no intention at all of involving him in this odd little Christmas tradition. And that was _fine_ with Ludwig, but Irina's look had become stern, and Toris finally grumbled something to the boy, who set merrily upon cracking another walnut.

"Ludwig," Irina said, "You haven't even really met Raivis, yet, have you?"

Ludwig's eyes fell upon the boy, and he shrugged a shoulder. "Yes. No. Well, not officially."

"Well," she continued, obviously intent on lightening the mood, "This is Raivis! I know you can't understand each other, but he's sweet. You'll get along."

At Irina's direction, the boy held out a hand across the table, and Ludwig took it, the boy gawking up at him. Raivis. He was strange and crazy as the rest, young teenager or no.

Toris' brow was ever lowering.

The boy leaned in to Irina and whispered something in her ear, and she smiled. Turning to Ludwig, she said, "Raivis says that he really likes your uniform. He wants to know if maybe you'll let him try on your hat one day."

The boy was smiling away, chin up in his palm and looking so excited, and despite himself, Ludwig couldn't help but smile too. A little pride.

He had straightened up without realizing it, and said, "Sure."

Irina nodded, and the boy broke into a wide grin, and blabbered away happily, eyes on Ludwig the whole while. That felt kinda good, honestly. Someone looking at him like that. Wasn't used to feeling that, that odd self-satisfaction. He had never had anything to be proud of.

Toris scoffed. Buzz-kill.

Ludwig asked, "So, how does this work?"

Toris sat quite still, and after a second, Irina spoke up.

"Well, like I said, if the boat makes it to the other side, then supposedly it will be a good year for you. If it doesn't make it across then you'll have bad luck all year."

"What if the candle goes out? Or if it sinks?" he asked, and Toris sent him a severe look.

"Oh, well," Irina began, strangely, "I'm not sure! That's never happened before."

Toris was quick to supply, and said, simply, "You die."

...oh. Great. Toris was probably going to sink Ludwig's boat like a battleship.

Irina's hand suddenly fell upon his own, and she shoved a shell into his hand.

Suddenly, Ludwig realized he was actually bored as hell. He didn't believe in this, and only Ivan controlled his fate. He tapped his foot, glancing at the door as he waited for Ivan to come back.

The strike of a match, and suddenly a little lit boat was floating on the surface of the water. Ivan's, as Irina explained, since apparently he, like Ludwig, had no interest for this and was never present for the sailing of his boat. Toris gave it a little shove with his finger, and it set out. It made it across with no problem. That didn't surprise Ludwig, because Ivan was impervious to fate. Ivan made his own fate.

Raivis' boat sailed next. Like Ivan's, it made it across without a hitch. Irina's went. No problem.

Toris set the match and lit the candle on his own boat, and pushed it forward. It got stuck in the center.

Toris leaned forward, watching it with a low brow, and when it became apparent that the boat would go no farther, his shoulders fell, and he plucked it out of the water with a heavy look. And, for whatever reason, Ludwig thought he felt himself sneering. Well, bad luck for Toris, then. What he deserved, the bastard.

"Well," Toris said, casually, to Irina, "At least I didn't sink!"

Jerk.

Finally, after a second of carving up a new candle, Toris held out his hand, and Ludwig placed the empty shell in his palm, watching with only polite interest as Toris sat the candle inside and lit it, and set his boat down. A push of Toris' finger and the boat set sail, and somehow, Toris was more interested in his fate than _he_ was, leaning forward and watching with intense eyes as the shell floated across the water. A minute of slow chugging, and then the shell hit the other side.

A silence. Toris shifted his weight.

"Well. You made it," Toris finally said, with a scoff. Looked very disappointed.

With that, before Ludwig could think too much about it, Toris dumped the water out, Irina made lunch, and Toris was very quick to vanish once more without sparing Ludwig a single word or glance. Ludwig was annoyed about it, but maybe that was because he was a little hurt.

Wished Toris would talk to him. Missed him when he was gone. Hated Toris but liked him, too, and that Toris was so angry all of the time with him was disconcerting.

The high afternoon sun began to lower.

He found himself glancing up at the clock, and wondering why Ivan still had not returned. If Ivan had found more interesting ventures out around town, without him. That hurt.

The sun vanished. It started snowing again. The fierce winds picked up, so loud and unforgiving that the windows rattled in their frames, and he sat there on small sofa with Irina, huddling into her side for warmth as he waited. As he waited, he studied. Irina tried to help him, and sometimes she would stop and gush about how _happy_ Ivan would be to see him studying Russian, and that only made him all the more impatient.

Ivan still had not returned.

Night. The snow stopped, but the wind grew stronger.

He zoned out above the book, staring off into space as his fingers drummed the arm of the sofa, and he barely even noticed when Irina stood up and said, quickly, "Wait here, I've got to go check something. I'll be back."

He obeyed, mindlessly, because where would he go anyway, without Ivan? Without Toris.

He was alone.

Shutting the book and placing it in his lap, he looked around at the dim room, as the shadows played in corners and the windows shook from the fierce wind and the high ceiling and long walls seemed to close in, and he shuddered. He didn't want to be alone.

Whispers. He didn't want to talk to _them_.

The moonlight suddenly broke through the curtain as it fluttered, and he felt a cold dread flow through his veins like a river when he could _swear_ that he saw a flash of silver in the darkness, a familiar voice close to his ear, and someone reached out and brushed the hair at the back of his neck—

Reaching up, he whirled around, certain he would see fuckin' Gilbert, coming back to torment him some more, but there was no one behind him. There was only a great cat, massive and brown, its golden eyes glowing in the light, and it stood upon the top of the sofa, kneading its claws into the fabric and watching him.

Watching him.

Uncomfortable, he stared away, and the cat leapt to the floor and scurried to the door. Ludwig didn't know _why_ , but he stood up, and followed it. He didn't want to be alone. A cat was better than nothing.

It darted through the halls, its bushy tail alert in the air as it weaved this way and that, and Ludwig kept close behind, clutching the book to his chest and trying to ignore the exceedingly eerie echo of his footsteps in the empty hallway.

Everything was dark. Where was everyone?

The windows were shaking, it was so cold that his breath puffed out visible in the moonlit air, and all of the doors were shut. So where, then, had Irina gone? Where was Toris? Why wasn't anyone in the hall? No lights streamed from under any of the doors. The alarm was rising. The cat sped up.

He could feel himself starting to panic.

A ray of golden light suddenly cut across the hall, and it was with indescribable relief that he could see light coming out from under a door. The great cat fell before it and reached up, clawing the door as though it were beseeching him, somehow, to open it up for him. Ludwig came before it, and reached out, gripping the handle in his hand.

After a moment of nervous hesitation, he pushed it open.


	26. Barely Gripping Reality

**Chapter 26**

**Barely Gripping Reality**

The door opened.

Bright light. Warmth.

The cat darted through, and he shoved the door open the rest of the way, and stood in the frame.

He nearly sighed in relief. Everyone was there.

The fireplace roared ahead, drowning out the wind from outside, and the room was warm and lit up with the fire and the lamps, and before him stood Irina, speaking loudly in Russian, and there was Ivan.

Ivan—god.

They did not see him there, until Ivan glanced up, perhaps sensing he was being watched. A lifting of Ivan's brow, and he straightened up, tucking his hands in his pockets and smiling as he caught Ludwig's gaze.

Ludwig smiled back. A damn beautiful sight, Ivan. Hadn't left him.

Irina turned around, then, and suddenly huffed, as though Ludwig had walked in on something he was not supposed to. Ludwig looked over to the side of the room, to where Toris and Raivis were trying to finish up the decorations on a tree. Toris looked over his shoulder, saw Ludwig, and shook his head.

A hand fell on his shoulder, and he realized that Irina was in front of him, speaking. He tried to listen, as Ivan's eyes bored into his own.

"Aw," Irina began, in disappointment, "I was going to surprise you!" She sent the cat below a halfhearted glare, and then sighed. "Oh, well. It's no big deal. Sorry, I shouldn't have left you alone."

Ludwig barely heard her words, as Ivan stood back in front of the fireplace, watching him with a pleased smile and smoldering eyes, as though he had been gone and had not seen Ludwig for _days_. Somehow, he felt that way too.

Irina had suddenly taken the book from his hands, and as she reached towards an end table and tucked it away in a drawer, she sent him an almost devious smile, as though he should not let on to Ivan that he was studying Russian. Ludwig tilted his head in compliance. One last pat on his shoulder from Irina, and then she left his side and went back to Ivan.

Ivan. He looked different then, somehow. Looked tranquil and subdued, calm. Not that cool composure he always had, but an actual look of serenity. His hair was combed back, neatly, dressed in casual clothes that were this time not wrinkled and messy. A bright red wool sweater that matched so well the shade of his skin. Not so frightening then, seeing Ivan out of uniform, and maybe that was the first time Ludwig could look at Ivan and remember he was actually just a man and not a god. His cheeks glinted with stubble, smile crooked and eyes lidded. Calm.

The cat was rubbing at his ankles. The fireplace crackled. Ludwig wandered a few paces to the side, and then back, in circles, uncertain of what to do without Ivan telling him. The tree was finished, suddenly, and Toris walked straight past Ludwig with no word and to the corner.

Toris took a seat at the table across from Raivis, and Ludwig stared at him. Toris was dressed more loosely than he had ever seen him, not so stuffy and strict, hair let loose and tousled and wavy as though he had not combed it. A button-down shirt and slacks. No tie. The first time Ludwig had ever seen Toris out of uniform. A strange sight, but not an unpleasant one. Made Toris feel more in reach. Looked like a normal man. Wasn't so scary. Still looked horribly foul, though, angry, and so Ludwig didn't go over to him.

Ludwig could see a bottle of vodka in between Toris and Raivis, and it was with shock that he saw Raivis fill up a glass and put it back like water. Damn. That kid could drink.

Everyone here could, actually.

Turning his attention across the room, he could see that Irina and Ivan were much more lively, passing a bottle back and forth. Irina was loud, as she always was, and Ivan watched her patiently. She suddenly held out her arms affectionately, but instead of embracing her, Ivan took her face gently within his great hands and kissed her quickly upon the lips. Ludwig smiled.

It seemed that with every passing day, remembering that fear he had had was harder and harder.

Seconds of wordless devotion on both parts, and then Ivan pulled away and kissed her forehead. It passed Ludwig's mind that Irina had been the only thing, so long ago, that had prevented Ivan from slipping completely over the edge of insanity's cliff, because she had loved her little brother and had tried her best to protect him, even if she had failed. That was why Ivan would never harm her, why he would do anything for her, why he was so protective of her, and maybe Irina was the only person on the earth that wielded power over Ivan. If only because he allowed her to.

The only woman Ivan had ever loved.

Ludwig's thoughts were interrupted when the great cat suddenly stood up on its back legs and used his thigh as a scratching post.

Gritting his teeth, Ludwig glowered down at it, but did not shake it off, as Ivan had broken away from Irina and was steadily approaching him. The smile on Ivan's face was evident, and when he was so close that Ludwig could feel Ivan's warmth, there was a sudden movement, and for a dizzy second he thought that Ivan was going to kiss him in front of everyone.

But he only reached down and took up the massive cat under his arm, and Ludwig didn't really know why he was a little disappointed.

Ivan had been gone all day. Just wanted to be paid attention to, perhaps.

"Sasha," Ivan said, as he straightened up, the cat's paws kneading air in contentment as Ivan carried it, and Ludwig could only manage a dumb, "Huh?" as Ivan's scorching eyes burned into his own. "Sasha," he repeated, moving his arm to indicate the cat, "His name is Sasha. He's spoiled because of Irina."

"Oh," was his simple response, and some part of him wished that Ivan would just set the damn cat down and take up his hand instead, and they could ditch this crowded room and go to bed so that his head would stop hurting and so that Ivan would be with him.

...where had that come from?

Ivan just smirked, and turned to the tree. "Do you like it? We never bother putting up a tree. Too much trouble since it's just going to get thrown out, you know." He looked over his shoulder, and when he caught Ludwig's eye, his expression was fond as he added, "But Christmas trees are a German thing, aren't they? I thought it would make you happy."

It did make him happy. If that warmth in his chest was any indication, anyway, although to be honest he wasn't sure if he was happy because of the sight of the Christmas tree or just because Ivan was back. Couldn't tell.

Didn't matter. Happy was happy, and he was happy then.

Ivan handed the cat off to Irina, who took it with a coo, and when he turned around, Ludwig fully expected to be embraced, like he usually was. Ivan only smiled, though, and took up a glass from the coffee table, filling it to the brim with vodka and shoving it into his hands.

"Here," he said, coolly, "I want to make sure you have a good time."

Then Ivan walked off, drinking as he looked around the room and observed his efforts, and Ludwig was left to stare after him with a furrowed brow, feeling somehow that he was being played again.

Ivan was suddenly denying physical contact. Why?

He narrowed his eyes as Ivan glanced back and sent him a smirk, and he realized that Ivan was either trying to see how long he would last without grabbing his hand or was trying to deprive him until it was time to sleep so that he would be more responsive. Ivan, with that wolfish sixth sense, was just playing another game.

Well, he was not alone in this room, so Ludwig could survive without Ivan's hand around his own.

He would play along.

Time passed. His glass was half empty.

The vodka was flowing.

Raivis put back almost an entire bottle by himself. Ivan was on his fifth glass. Irina drank just as much as Ivan did, maybe even more, and to see her put back shot after shot after shot, drinking in those little glasses more than Ivan had in his cup, her cheeks red and eyes bleary, and _still_ be able to stand was astounding. She was more of a tank than Ivan was, plowing through that vodka with no problems.

Even Toris was drinking, and that was something Ludwig had yet to see. Toris was always so guarded, so stern. It was fascinating to see him take a glass up, throw it back, and then slam it down on the table with a wince. The steady lidding of his pretty eyes, as he murmured away to Raivis as he refilled Toris' glass.

With loud laughter, Irina suddenly leaned over clumsily and flipped on the radio, and the room was filled with very cheery music. The atmosphere was ever lightening.

Ludwig started his second glass.

Time passed, and he felt less and less out of place as the vodka ran through his veins.

The hour grew late.

Raivis fell first, and when Ludwig looked over, his head was on the table and he was out like a light, leaving Toris to drink alone.

Toris was probably the next to go, if that precarious swaying was any indication. His cheeks were red and his stance quite loose. Didn't look so angry then, didn't seem to be in such a bad mood anymore, drunk as he was, so Ludwig finally gathered up the courage to go over to him.

"Hi, Toris."

Just wanted Toris to talk to him. To stop ignoring him. To tell him what he had done wrong this time.

Toris looked up at him with bleary eyes, and after a second of hesitation, he smiled. As usual, it was more of a sneer.

"Hey, Ludwig. Having fun?"

"Something like that," he said, as he sat down at the table, mindful of the unconscious Raivis. Suddenly a realization hit him, something that he had not noticed earlier but should have, and he added, almost guiltily, "Your cast's off. How does your arm feel?"

Clumsily, and with a proud look, Toris lifted his left arm up and flexed it in the air.

"Just about as good as new."

Ludwig scooted his chair closer to Toris, closer and closer, because he had missed the son of a bitch and Toris was the only one here that could really understand him.

Just wanted a friend.

Toris saw him coming closer, despite his drunkenness, and suddenly sent Ludwig a look of distaste. Annoyance.

"So," Toris began, very quietly so that no one else would hear, "What's it like in Ivan's bed? I was going to ask you earlier, but..." He laughed, thinly, and followed up with, "I thought you'd be so proud that you'd tell everyone on your own."

A pang of anxiousness. That was why Toris had been ignoring him, then, these past few days. Just because of that? It wasn't _his_ fault. He hadn't asked to move into Ivan's room. It had just happened. He had no control here. Ivan did everything. Why was Toris angry?

Toris watched him expectantly, as though just _waiting_ for Ludwig to retort, waiting to fight with him, but Ludwig didn't say a word. He didn't want to fight. Didn't want to argue. Why couldn't Toris just understand?

Ludwig lowered his eyes at last, and there was silence.

Finally, Toris snorted and looked down at his glass, muttering lowly, "Didn't think you'd be ashamed."

He wasn't ashamed. Well. Not for the reason Toris thought, anyway. Was ashamed that he was too afraid to sleep alone. Was ashamed that he was scared of the dark suddenly. But he wasn't ashamed that it was in Ivan's bed that he now slept. Hell, would have taken anyone's. If Toris weren't such a jerk, Ludwig would have gladly occupied his, too, to not be alone.

Toris continued to glance at him, irritably, as though there were many more things he would like to say, but finally he only heaved a sigh, and stood up. To get away from Ludwig, no doubt, Toris staggered drunkenly towards the unoccupied couch.

Ludwig followed.

He liked Toris. Was trying so hard to befriend him. Wanted Toris to stop looking at him like that.

Needed Toris.

Tossing himself down on the couch, Toris rested his head back, and seemed annoyed when Ludwig sat down next to him.

"Will you stop followin' me?" Toris grumbled, voice thick and slurred, and when he tried to pull himself back up, he succeeded only in falling back down. Ludwig reached out and grabbed his arm to steady him, and at his touch, something shifted in Toris' gaze.

Looked tired suddenly, so _tired_ , and Toris ran a hand over his face, groaning against intoxication and muttering in Russian under his breath.

Sitting there together on the couch, Toris' arm still in Ludwig's hand, there was an awful rise of longing.

Alfred.

He and Alfred, sitting on the couch together every night, drunk and happy and chatting away. Alfred throwing an arm over his shoulders some nights. Ludwig propping his feet up on Alfred's lap on others. Snatching drunk Alfred's glasses off his nose and falling backwards, pressing his foot into Alfred's chest as he tried to crawl over for them. Always together. Days long gone. Alfred was gone, and suddenly it was Toris there beside of him. Maybe Ludwig wasn't entirely aware of that on some level.

Must not have been aware, because suddenly Ludwig had turned himself sideways without thinking, hauled Toris over, and the next thing Ludwig knew he had fallen backwards against the arm of the couch, Toris' back pressed into his chest. Wasn't Alfred, because Alfred hated the color of these uniforms.

Toris was frozen up so stiff and rigid at the touch that he had stopped breathing, hands clenching the couch for balance, and Ludwig felt pity, suddenly. The way Toris locked up like that at being touched.

Hard Toris had just been made that way, hadn't he? Toris was just like Ludwig, underneath it all.

An awful silence, stillness, and then Toris started breathing again when Ludwig reached up and pushed Toris' hair out of his face. Toris muttered something, tried to sit up, and when Ludwig held firm they came to a compromise of sorts. A very awkward moment of squirming, that culminated with Ludwig sitting up straight and Toris lying back across him, head up on the arm of the couch and Ludwig's arms using his stomach as a cushion.

Toris stared up at Ludwig with a look that he couldn't place because he had never seen it before, but Ludwig recognized Ivan's look, when he glanced up and saw him from across the room.

Distaste. Utter disdain.

Yet Ivan didn't move, didn't speak, and eventually scoffed and shook his head. Like a parent who watched their precious child playing with a very dirty stray dog, but did not have the heart to tell them to get away from it. An awful rush of panic, as Ludwig prayed that Ivan wasn't angry. Didn't come barging over, didn't start screaming, and eventually Ivan looked away altogether and back to Irina. Ludwig relaxed.

Ludwig turned his eyes back down to Toris, who was still blearily staring up at him from beneath his lashes.

If there was anything nice that Ludwig could say about bitchy Toris, it was that he had the prettiest eyes Ludwig had ever seen. ...now that Gilbert was gone, anyway. That deep bluish-green, mottled as they were with flecks of lighter blue specks within, and those thick, dark lashes. Didn't make him any less scary in uniform, those eyes, but they were pretty.

And then, suddenly, Toris heaved a long sigh, and seemed to concede a little to Ludwig. His rigid stance slumped, he threw his head back on the arm of the couch, and he gave a short, low laugh.

A whisper.

"You bastard. How have you been, huh? You feel okay?"

Ludwig responded, simply, "I'm okay."

"You're really _brave_ , you know," Toris said, and from the way he said 'brave' it was clearly a mockery of how constantly Ivan said it. "Ha. Guess you are, though. You handle everything so well. I think I'm jealous of you sometimes. How sad is _that_?"

Ignoring the jab, Ludwig just whispered, "I don't feel very brave, Toris, if it's any consolation."

It must have been.

Toris was the brave one.

"Ludwig," Toris suddenly slurred, "Hey, listen— I'm sorry about earlier. I wasn't tryin' to be such a jerk. What can I say? I get mad. I shouldn't... I don't mean to take it out on _you_. I don't. So if I ever say something stupid, it's not because I hate you. I say things I don't mean. When I said I wish you'd died— Well. I don't know if I really meant that. You know? I'm just a big dumbass, sometimes. I'm an asshole, what can I say? I don't think I really hate you."

Drunk Toris was just babbling, and Ludwig accepted the half-assed, not-entirely-sincere apology, because it was the best he would ever get from a man like Toris. Would never hear anything like this again, likely, so took it for what it was.

Toris closed his eyes, and Ludwig suddenly felt as exhausted as Toris looked.

Might have fallen asleep there, but didn't have the chance. There was a blur before him, movement, and Ludwig barely had time to look up before Ivan had suddenly marched forward and grabbed Toris' arm. A horrible silence, as Toris went completely stiff and still, like he had earlier, and when Ivan wrenched Toris up, and not gently, Toris looked a breath away from a coronary.

"Get off him," Ivan grunted, and Ludwig sat up straight in attention.

Ivan shoved Toris away, Toris staggered and caught himself at the last second on the end table, and was very quick to suddenly vanish, despite how drunk he was.

Ivan's blazing eyes calmed the second they fell upon Ludwig, and then he extended a hand, saying, "Come with me. Spend some time with me."

No hesitation; Ludwig took Ivan's hand and was pulled to his feet.

Toris vanished entirely from his mind, as everything else did when Ludwig found himself caught in Ivan's pinning gaze.

For a minute, Ludwig felt a rush of pride in his chest, because he had won the game that Ivan had started without even trying to. Ivan had not wanted to touch him, so he had touched Toris, and Ivan would not stand it. He had won, and it was Ivan, in the end, who had taken _his_ hand. Ludwig considered that somehow a victory.

Ivan was tugging him out of the room suddenly, out of the warmth and safety of the others. A scaling of stairs, Ivan's hand squeezed his own, and then the bedroom door was ahead.

His heart raced. Oh, damn—his sense of victory may have been a little misplaced. Wasn't sure, suddenly, about the kind of 'time' Ivan wished to spend with him.

He was dragged into the room. The door quickly shut, and this time Ivan did not flip on the light, and before Ludwig could utter a word he found himself whirled around and thrust up against the wall. A moment of crushing heaviness and thick air, as Ivan pinned him in place by placing inescapable arms on either side of him, and, with that closet door looming in the darkness behind, it was easy just to stand there as that strange new submissiveness took over.

Ivan leaned forward, resting his face in Ludwig's hair, and it was obvious from how he struggled to maintain his balance that he had drank too much again.

The atmosphere was not so frightening this time, though. Ivan seemed safe right now.

Ivan suddenly kissed his temple, and whispered, "I missed you today. Did you miss me too? Ah, I know you did. But Ludwig! You should not be so nice to Toris. You're just wasting your time. Don't bother with him. Waste of time. He always was. You're better than that. Toris is Irina's job, not yours."

Too close to this situation to be aware of Toris' needs, the only thought that crossed his mind was that when Ivan said his name, ' _Ludwig_ ' sounded more like ' _Lyudovik_ '.

Pleasant.

Ludwig stood there, silent and still, as Ivan muttered lowly in that drunken mash of German and Russian that was almost completely incomprehensible. Another kiss to the side of his head, and the warm contact was welcome after a day of nothing.

"Oh!" Ivan suddenly cried, pulling back, "Your present. Here, I have it here."

Ludwig was dragged over to the desk in the corner, and Ivan flipped on the lamp. As Ivan pulled out the drawer and rummaged through, Ludwig took careful steps forward, keeping a very alert eye on the closet door. Just in case.

Finally, Ivan found what he was looking for, and looked up. He was smiling.

The nervousness was back.

"Here, this is for you," Ivan said, quickly, and before he could react, he had thrust an envelope into Ludwig's hands. "I hope you like it. I wanted to get you flowers, too, but damn town shops didn't have any." Ivan swayed, smiling lopsidedly as he watched Ludwig.

Ludwig looked down, at the inconspicuous manila envelope, and could only imagine what lay within it. Who knew what Ivan's idea of a Christmas gift was?

"But I don't have anything for you," Ludwig finally muttered, meeting Ivan's eyes.

Ivan shot him a stern look, and his voice was sharp and cold as he said, "What could you possibly give me? I have everything. I don't need you to give me anything. Did I ask you for something?"

That now familiar rush of panic, anxiety, terror.

Must have looked like a deer in headlights then, eyes wide and not breathing as he clenched the envelope and waited for the heart-attack his racing pulse was about to cause. The closet was just waiting there behind him.

A scoff, and Ivan swayed a little, held the desk for balance, and his face softened.

"I don't need you to give me anything," Ivan repeated, much more gently, "I just want you to stay with me all the time. That's all I want."

Air came back as his chest unclenched. He turned his eyes down, and took a breath.

The envelope was light in his hands.

"Well?" Ivan asked, eagerly, "Aren't you going to open it?"

After a hesitation, Ludwig did, reaching up with clumsy fingers to pull apart the seal at the top. When he reached in, he pulled out a stack of papers.

Ivan watched him intently.

Papers. Just papers, but they hit him harder than any bullet ever could. Air was gone yet again, this time from utter shock rather than fear.

The first paper that he held caught his attention immediately, and it was no surprise why; there was a photo of himself there. He recognized a _horrible_ picture that Gilbert had snapped of him on his seventeenth birthday, where he had looked so serious and so much older than he was that Gilbert had picked on him for months afterward. He studied the document, after a second of complete disbelief, and then he realized that it was a housing form from the GDR. He had never resided in the GDR as an adult, and he had never had any homes in his name.

How?

With trembling hands, Ludwig moved it to the back, and there was another paper.

Two pages. Two languages. German and Russian. Reading the German side, he could see that it was an official form of relocation, with the visa stamp and the diplomatic seal needed to authorize a change of residence from the GDR to the USSR.

He flipped to the next paper.

That same photo of himself, and there was a name at the top. Müller, Ludwig. It was a military record from the GDR. Credentials, his rank (colonel, of course), his school records (falsified), the length of time in service, recommendations, even false psych evaluations.

He turned to the next paper. The false school records that had been in the military document. He flipped to the next. Medical records. Next. An authorization of legal immigration into the USSR. A false address. The paper that made him a resident, if not yet a citizen, of the Soviet Union. Every single page had a duplicate, in Russian.

A tiny card, clipped to a paper. A national identification number. A Russian driver's license was clipped to another.

And then there was one last paper, and as soon as he had laid eyes upon, Ludwig had to cover his mouth with his hand and inhale to keep himself from bursting into tears.

_Oh_ —a birth certificate.

Everything he had never had was suddenly before him. A name. Müller, Ludwig. A birth date. Born May 9th, 1944, in the University Hospital in Dresden. _Parents_. Johann and Helga Müller.

He knew it was just a fake, he knew it, but g _od_. To _see_ it. To have it in his hands. That was remarkable, astounding in every way, because no one had ever wanted him. He didn't _have_ any parents. They had not wanted him, no one had wanted him. Hadn't even given him a name.

Knew it was false, knew it was just a trick of papery, Ivan's very skilled and clever lie, but it was it still real in the sense that he was holding it and could feel it and honest to god he didn't even know real from fake anymore. His head was a mess, an absolute wreck, and 'real' seemed to be a concept that was harder and harder to grasp each day.

He could see it. He could hold it. It offered him everything he had ever wanted. A life. An identity.

A name.

"I looked all over Berlin for records of you," Ivan whispered, as Ludwig clutched the birth certificate tightly to his chest, "But you didn't have anything. Like you never existed. It was easy. I just made all new papers for you. Do you like them? See, look, my parents were Ivan and Olga, so I just changed it to German, see, because we're really just the same. You and I."

Ludwig couldn't speak; if he opened his mouth he would have burst into tears.

He had never been _anyone_. He had never belonged. Just a lost soul, plucked up off of the streets at Roderich's whim. Nameless. Parentless. Alone.

The paper was fake. It didn't matter. You and I, Ivan had said.

"Now, we can always be together."

Ludwig only heard, 'Now you can't ever leave me.'

All of a sudden, that suppressed part of Ludwig that contained his logic and distrust and self-awareness raised its ugly head, and he could see it as plain as day in his mind : Ivan, sitting at his office desk when Ludwig had been locked in that room, researching and calling favors to his people in Berlin, and when he had all the information he had needed, he had probably laughed to himself and said aloud, 'Too easy!' Because it probably really _was_ too easy for someone like Ivan to take advantage of someone like _him_ , someone without parents and without a strong sense of identity. He had called Toris over and gloated aloud as he had ordered Toris to wherever to acquire these illicit documents, and _that_ was where Toris had _really_ been those days he had been out of sight, and Ivan had always known that he would be playing a very powerful psychological wild card—

_I always win._

Creating Ludwig an identity anew, to instill loyalty and win his allegiance. To create unwavering, unquestioning devotion. Ivan had given him his own parents' names, to create between them some kind of invisible bond. Ivan was playing the role of savior, guide, mentor, rescuer, the knight in shining armor, whisking him away from such volatile, uncertain, _lost_ territory and bringing into a very still, frozen world, and giving to him a new name and new family and proclaiming that he was loved and needed here.

Ivan had given him the birth date of May 9th. The day Germany had surrendered to the Soviet Union. Like he had surrendered to Ivan.

The voice of reason said this new identity and all that came with it was the beginning of the end, the final breaking of the ice, because Ivan was _dangerous_. Unpredictable. Deceitful. Ivan lied.

_Ah_ —

He could _feel_ the paper in his hand. The voice of reason in his head was just a voice. It was never there when he really needed it. It had abandoned him in that room. It had abandoned him in his time of need. Fuck it. He didn't need it. So what if Ivan had had some kind of ulterior motive for this gift? So what if Ivan lied? _Everyone_ lied. Everyone. He wasn't stupid. He knew it.

Just didn't care.

No one had ever given him anything with more meaning. Ivan said he wanted him to stay. That was alright. He wasn't going anywhere. Suddenly, with the feel of that paper in his hands, he didn't _want_ to go anywhere.

He had never been anyone.

Ivan was beside of him suddenly, reaching out and taking the paper with gentle hands. "Here," he said, as he tried to pry them from Ludwig's fingers, "I'll put them somewhere safe."

Ludwig held fast. He did not want to let them go.

Ivan snorted.

"It's okay. I won't let anything happen to them. I promise."

Promise. Ivan always kept his promises.

Reluctantly, he finally let Ivan take the papers, and after Ivan turned unsteadily back to the desk and tucked them away in a drawer, he looked up, and said to Ludwig, "I don't care who you really are. Why would it matter? Maybe it's better not to know where you came from. We're together now. That's all I care about. Names are just names. I'd love you, no matter what you were called. No matter where you came from."

No matter what. An offering of unconditional love.

Hit him so hard.

A nobody his whole life. Why would a man like Ivan have ever wanted _him_?

Reaching up, he pinched the bridge of his nose, squinting his eyes as he struggled to keep himself together. He didn't want to cry in front of Ivan.

He could feel Ivan's eyes upon him, and he could feel too the changing of the tide, even if he couldn't put a name to it, or even _understand_ it. He was aware, however vaguely, that he wouldn't ever need to go back to Berlin, because there was nothing in Berlin for him now and everything he had ever wanted was suddenly right here in the place he had least suspected. In the freezing ice of Siberia. In Ivan.

In this older, dangerous man who had once been his worst enemy and was now suddenly his savior.

Finally, after a moment of forcing his throat to unclench, Ludwig opened his eyes, met Ivan's gaze, and managed to mutter, voice thick with the effort, "If— If I ever go back to Berlin, I won't even..."

Ludwig cut himself off abruptly then, but it was not because he was threatened by tears. Not because he lost his train of thought. Not because he fumbled his words.

He lost his voice because the _second_ the word 'Berlin' had dropped from his lips, something shifted in Ivan's expression. His eyes had snapped over, focused and sharp as they had been that night, and it was that same expression, the very same, that had crossed Ivan's face when Ludwig had slapped him. That incredulous fury.

Danger.

That storm.

He could have heard a pin drop for the crushing silence, and Ivan stared at him suddenly with _that_ look.

Ludwig realized immediately his mistake. It was an innocent one. He had meant to say, 'If _we_ ever go back to Berlin, it won't even mean anything at all to me,' because it was true, but it had come out wrong. Ivan had misunderstood. He had tried to articulate his feeling of gratitude. He had said it wrong. And Ivan, in his state of intoxication, had only heard, 'One day I'll go back to Berlin'.

Ivan heard a declaration of desertion. That one day he would abandon Ivan, even though Ivan had promised never to abandon _him_.

The storm clouds burst.

He remembered once again how foolish he was to feel secure in his position around Ivan, how foolish he was to _ever_ think that Ivan's moods could be predicted, because everything could suddenly turn on a dime, and Christ, he should have remembered that from the first time.

There were no truly 'safe' moments. Not around Ivan.

"Don't ever," Ivan began, and _never_ had his voice been so terrible as it was now, as he slammed his fists on the desk and screeched, not screamed, but _screeched_ , "Don't _ever_ say that word again! Don't ever! How could you—all I've _done_ for you since you've been here! I do _everything_ for you! I've given you _everything_ you wanted, haven't I? And all you think about is going back _there_! I've been kind to you, haven't I? I've taken care of you, haven't I? Didn't I save you? _Twice_? You keep betraying me, but I keep forgiving you because I'm the _only_ one that will care for you! I've made so many problems for myself just to go after _you_!"

The lamp was swept furiously to the floor.

The bulb flickered.

"What more do I have to _do_ for you? _Tell_ me! All I've done for you, and for all I get I should have just let you die there in the snow! I should have just shot you and saved myself all of this _goddamn_ trouble! I made those papers for you, didn't I? For what? So you can take them back _there_ and pretend like you're really someone? You're _nothing_ without me! No one else even remembers you exist! No one else will have you! I'm the only one that loves you! You don't have anyone else! How do you repay me? By wanting to go back _there_? You live _here_ now! _You can't ever go back there_! I'd hate you _forever_ if you ever went back! You're just like everyone else! They always end up running! I shouldn't have ever taken up a German! Traitors! I've done everything for you! How easily you forget! You're nothing without me! You're nobody back there! You don't even have a name! So, what, I've given you a name now so you want to go and use it there? I won't ever let you go back _there_! You'll leave me like _he_ left _you_? He doesn't want you, so why would you want to go back _there_? No one will ever love you like I do! Only I could love _you_! You're nobody without _me_!"

Ludwig stood frozen, speechless and not even daring to breathe.

The words _hurt_ , because they were true.

_I'm the only one that loves you._

Ivan was the only one he had now. Ivan had created from nothing a history. He was nobody without Ivan.

What had he done?

Ivan reached forward suddenly in his wrath, sweeping his hand out and sending the rest of the items on the top of the desk flying to the floor, papers fluttering, and god, Ludwig wanted to cry out and say, 'Please don't hurt my papers!' because it would damage him beyond repair to have that identity suddenly ripped away from him, but his voice caught in his throat.

He couldn't move.

He was nothing without Ivan, that was true. Nobody. Didn't wanna be _nobody_ again.

Those papers.

Ivan left the desk and started pacing the room as a wrathful hurricane, retreating into himself as he began to whisper in Russian, barely keeping himself from bumping into walls as his rage and drunkenness guided his feet.

Ludwig stood utterly still.

His heart was hammering in his chest, and he felt sick with nervousness and guilt and a horrible fear, and above all, he was _so_ confused. So confused. He was certain that he said Ber— _that word_ in front of Ivan before. He was sure of it.

...hadn't he?

He hadn't meant it like that. It was just a word. He had said it before. So why _now_ was Ivan so furious? Had he really hurt Ivan so? Was this anger false? He didn't think so. Not with _that_ look.

Ivan was upset because he had given Ludwig those papers, and no doubt those papers had been meant to erase _that word_ from his mind completely.

Ivan continued to storm across the room furiously before him, muttering incoherently to himself, brow low and eyes wrathful and so _dark_ , and for a terrible moment, Ludwig was certain that he had lost Ivan again, just as he lost him that night he had put the gun to his head.

What could he do to extinguish this fire he had started?

Anxious and _scared_ and hoping to avoid another round of darkness, Ludwig gathered together whatever bravery he possessed, which was hardly any, took a great, deep breath, and leapt forward. As Ivan stalked across the room like a whirlwind, all Ludwig could think to do was to reach out and grab a hold of his arm, and say, weakly, "I'm sorry! I didn't mean it like that!"

He hadn't. He hadn't wanted to _leave_. Ivan had misunderstood.

For a second, Ivan's arm wrenched up into the air, breaking Ludwig's grasp and hovering above as though he were seconds away from striking, and Ludwig, desperate to prevent this dam from breaking and not knowing what else to _do_ , reached out again, and threw his arms around Ivan's neck, burying his face in Ivan's collar and moaning, voice muffled, "I'm sorry! I don't want to leave. I don't. Please. I'm _sorry_."

Sorry.

There it was again. All he ever said.

A twitch from Ivan beneath him, and Ludwig could only tense and prepare himself for whatever was coming as he could feel the muscles tightening in Ivan's shoulders, but there was only a still silence.

Ivan did not strike him.

Then Ivan's shoulders slumped, and maybe he had come back from whatever dark he had gone off into, for he reached down and grabbed up Ludwig and embraced him so tightly that he was lifted clean off the floor, and Ludwig had never known such _relief_ when he heard Ivan's voice soft in his ear, low and almost despondent, "You can't ever go back there. You'll stay here with me, won't you? I don't want you to go away. I hate it when you're _gone_."

The dark was gone. The dam stood strong.

He would have to be so much more careful.

Ivan's arms were tight around him, and Ludwig stayed completely still, hardly daring to breath, let alone move, until Ivan finally released him minutes later and grabbed up his hands. Now Ivan was smiling again, as though nothing had ever happened. As if everything was just fine.

"You'll stay here with me, won't you?" Ivan asked again, and Ludwig could only return the grip upon Ivan's hands, and nod, feeling so sick.

He hadn't wanted to leave. Ivan had misunderstood.

Ivan's brow came up, and his shoulders relaxed, and Ludwig could see that the danger had passed, at least for now. His new papers were tucked safely away in the desk. His new identity was secure. The passport to stay here with Ivan. He wasn't going anywhere.

Ivan tightened the grip on his hands into a painful vice, pale eyes bleary and lidded, and when he spoke, his voice was soft and gentle again as he whispered, "I knew you would. See, you were meant for me, you know. That's why I know you won't think about going back there."

The words were more of a very serious suggestion, as though something terrible would happen if Ivan discovered that he had, after all, still been thinking about going back _there_.

Ludwig shook his head, and Ivan's painful grip slackened.

He would never say _that word_ again.

Ivan pressed forward, kissed his forehead, and said, "You can't go back. Never. They don't want you over there anymore. I've made a soldier of you. They'll call you a murderer. Don't you remember what you did?"

The words cut.

...murderer?

The woman in the blue dress.

No, no, no, he hadn't pulled the trigger of the gun. The blood that had filled that room had been on Ivan's hands, not his—

_I did that for you. I would do anything for you._

But Ivan had done that for _him_ , and that made it _his_ fault, one way or the other. And even if it hadn't, Ludwig wearing that uniform would have been too much, just too much. Alfred would never be able to distinguish Ludwig from the Reds and would be distant and distrustful. He would lose his best friend, and his mother, because Erzsébet would never hug him again.

His father, because Roderich would turn his back, and say, 'I should never have brought you home'.

And Gilbert...

His papers were all new. In Russian.

Gilbert would have told Ludwig to just go back over the wall and back where he belonged, with all the other Reds.

"Hey, it's alright," Ivan murmured, gently, "Who cares about them anyway? You don't need them anymore. They must not have cared about you in the first place. They haven't even been looking for you, or trying to find you. They don't miss you. So don't miss them. You have me, don't you? Just forget you ever knew them. You've got a new name now. You belong here now. Forget everything else."

Forget.

Ivan was erasing his former life out from beneath his feet. Wiping the slate of his memory.

And the most frightening part was how _easy_ it was to forget. It was easier to think of Ivan than it was to think of _them_. It was easier to feel Ivan's embrace than it was to remember Erzsébet's. It was easier to hear Ivan's soft voice than it was to remember Roderich's comforting one. It was easier to stand under Ivan's possessive eyes than it was to remember Alfred's protective gaze. It was easier to reach out and grab Ivan's hand than it was to try to remember how Gilbert's felt.

Out here, in the cold and mist, forgetting was very easy. He could forget even them, he was sure, in time.

In the meanwhile, he would just have to be careful to never say _that word_ in front of Ivan again. Ivan's wrath was more frightening than any storm could have ever been, than any explosion or any night. He couldn't stand the sound of Ivan screaming.

He would never say _that word_ again. He wouldn't upset Ivan.

And it didn't matter anyway, because he would never go back to—

_That word, that word, that word, that word_ —

—again. So it didn't matter.

He would never go back. Ivan was the only one that accepted him. He was dead to the outside world. They wouldn't have him anymore.

He could forget, in time.

Ivan pulled him into the bed, and when Ivan fell atop of him and pinned him down, heavy and warm, Ludwig threw his arms around Ivan's neck, and g _od_ , he would have done _anything_ , anything at all, if Ivan would only have reassured him that he was wanted here and that he was _needed_ and that he was not a murderer.

He would have done anything.

But Ivan only collapsed above him, constricting his chest with his weight, and crooned, "I won't ever leave you," and passed straight out. Pinned to the bed and immobile, Ludwig could only cling to Ivan and stare up at the map past Ivan's shoulder, just like he had those other nights.

This time, he forced himself to keep his eyes on Russia. He didn't look over _there_. Ivan would have gotten angry.

Russia was home. Wherever Ivan was, that was home.

Ivan slept above him the whole night through.

Siberia was home now, because really...

_Murderer._

He had never had a home at all.

They didn't want him anymore.


	27. Pain of Separation

**Chapter 27**

**Pain of Separation**

_Do you remember..._

White sunlight.

_...how you promised..._

A coldness.

_...that we'd always be together?_

Heaviness in his chest.

_Forever._

"Hey."

A soft voice at his side. Another voice whispering in his ear. Or maybe just in his head.

" _Hey_. Hey, you awake, man?"

Hovering on the edge of consciousness, Gilbert managed only to shift his weight, inhale as he came around, and when the whispers stopped he looked over with bleary eyes, and rasped, "Yeah."

Someone was smiling at him.

Where was he? Felt hungover somehow. Exhausted.

The smell of leather and the burn of a heater. The whir of an engine. Golden hair shining in the morning sun.

Ludwig?

"Sorry if I woke you."

Seconds of incomprehension, and then Gilbert realized with a pang that it was not Ludwig that was smiling at him. It was his other guide. Eduard, his name was, or something similar. Didn't care too much to remember, if he were honest.

Looking around, wearily, Gilbert realized that he was in the car, slumped up against the door, half-asleep as Eduard sat there, staring at him. Turning his eyes to the foggy window, he could see that they weren't moving. Parked somewhere, in something that looked like a vacant lot of some sort, still as could be.

Gilbert sat upright in alarm, thinking that something horrible had occurred.

Heart racing, he turned to Eduard and asked, roughly, "What's happened?"

Eduard only smiled, and said, casually, "It's alright! Don't worry. Aren't you hungry? You must be. I'll go get us something to eat. Wait here."

Too sleepy to act and too dumb to respond, Gilbert could only watch as Eduard switched off the ignition and stepped out of the car, leaving Gilbert alone. The air became chilly without the heater.

...something to eat?

Squinting his eyes, he looked out of the window again, and could see little dots that were people walking to and fro in the distance. He realized that it was not a vacant lot. It was a rest stop, of some kind. They were taking a break.

A burst of anger that could have been irrational. There was no _time_. Didn't that damn man understand the urgency of this journey? Couldn't stop.

' _How could he?_ ' came a sudden voice in his ear, and he whipped around so hard that his neck hurt, but it was just Ludwig, still sitting in the backseat, looking wide-awake and alert and bright, and he was staring at Gilbert above crossed arms. ' _How could he understand, if you won't tell him why you_ really _came here? Stop blaming everyone else._ '

For a second, Gilbert could only sit frozen, as his head began to ache. The anger faded. Ludwig was always right, and of course Eduard didn't understand, because Gilbert wouldn't even tell him why he needed to go to Moscow so badly.

Reaching up, he scratched irritably at his hair, and just grumbled, "Sorry."

He twisted in his seat, leaned over, and meant to take Ludwig's hand up in his own for a more sincere apology. His hand just went straight through Ludwig, there was a flicker of static, and Gilbert's face momentarily crumpled. Right. He remembered. This Ludwig wasn't real. That was why he was here.

Wanted to cry.

Ludwig leaned forward, arms falling down to the seat to balance himself, and he was so close that his nose nearly touched Gilbert's forehead, but Gilbert did not dare try to touch him again.

He couldn't bear the disappointment of feeling just air.

' _It's alright, Gilbert,_ ' Ludwig said, barely a whisper, his voice so deep that some consonants were lost completely, ' _I'll stay with you. Even though you never stayed with me. I'll stay with you now. I'll help you_.'

He could barely meet Ludwig's pale eyes, and felt that horrible rise of shame that he was somehow used to.

Ludwig's loyalty shamed him. The guilt was killing him. He didn't deserve Ludwig. Never had. By all rights, Ludwig shoulda just left him there in that damn cell.

He was going to say as much, but fell still when the door was yanked open and Eduard, dressed in a heavy coat and gloves and his hair covered with snow, came back in and collapsed in his seat with a sigh of satisfaction.

Gilbert could smell food. He had no appetite.

Eduard, oblivious to Gilbert's internal struggles, held out a package, brown paper wrapped in twine, full of snacks, no doubt, but he was too lethargic and disheartened to take it.

"Come on," Eduard coaxed, amicably, "When's the last time you ate?"

He couldn't remember.

Eduard's voice wasn't as deep as Ludwig's, but still deeper than Gilbert's. Friendly as his face. Warm.

' _Take it_ ,' Ludwig demanded sternly from behind, ' _How are you going to come find me if you can't even stand up?_ '

It was true (Ludwig was _always_ right), and Gilbert reached out reluctantly and took the package, settling it in his lap as he, and Ludwig too, watched Eduard with an observant eye.

Curiosity, more than anything.

That loneliness.

Eduard was younger than Gilbert, a little. Had that easy, friendly air of kindness and good-nature that had long since been missing in his home since Ludwig had left. Healthy, clean, fresh-faced, pale-haired and fair-skinned, broad and well-settled, bespectacled and almost _too_ pleasant, he hardly looked like a rebellious smuggler and law-breaker, a repeat offender of defection. He didn't look the part. He just looked like a student. One of Ludwig's friends, maybe, if he had ever let Ludwig have any.

Maybe that was why Eduard was so successful, just _because_ of his non-threatening appearance. That guy coulda been an accountant or something, he was so ordinary. Guy like that. Easy enough to like, right off.

Gilbert watched quietly as Eduard removed his gloves and brushed the snow from his hair, turning the car back on and blasting the heat. He seemed to feel he was being watched, and, without glancing over, he said, calmly, "You don't talk a lot, huh?"

For a minute there, Gilbert was stunned.

Never, _ever_ in his life had someone said that he didn't _talk_ a lot. Usually, people were begging him to shut up.

...was he so different now? It was strange to hear, and somehow sad. He didn't feel like himself anymore. Had lost himself when he had lost Ludwig.

Ha. He never thought someone would ever say that to him.

Finally, Gilbert shrugged a shoulder, and averted his eyes down to the food in his lap as Eduard attacked his own with voracity, and after a silence, he grumbled, "What's there to say?"

Eduard paused, chewing a mouthful, and then laughed.

"I'm sure there's plenty," he said, cheerfully, "You're just not tellin' me!"

It was true.

Ludwig was laughing now, too. He missed the sound.

' _Gilbert, you're always so stubborn! You think you can do everything on your own. You'll see. In the end, you'll need someone. I tried to get you to open up to me. Stop pretending. You're only hurting yourself_.'

He shifted under Ludwig's sharp words, and bowed his head, staring without interest at the food below. He didn't feel like eating.

Eduard noticed, and suddenly said, "I'm not going to drive anymore until you eat it. All of it."

Narrowing his eyes, Gilbert sent prissy Eduard a halfhearted glare, and heaved a sigh. Oh, yeah, Eduard reminded him of Ludwig, alright. Little bastard. Just like him.

That was kinda nice, though, really, because he missed Ludwig so much.

What could he do?

The morning sun was rising.

He ate, as was expected of him, and when he was finished, feeling somewhat ill for it, he shoved the paper in Eduard's hands just to prove that he had, indeed, eaten all of it. Satisfied, Eduard shifted the gear, pulled his foot off the brake, and they were off again.

Ludwig was on his knees in the backseat, gripping the windowsill and staring out at the passing lands with an almost childish excitement. Gilbert watched him in the side mirror, trying to ignore the ache in his chest. When he had the real Ludwig back, when they were both back safe and sound in the West, he would buy a car and take Ludwig on a long road trip before he finally handed him off for the last time to waiting Roderich. Anything to make Ludwig happy.

He leaned back into the seat, as Eduard drove silently, and he closed his eyes and listened as Ludwig observed the Russian landscape, pointing out something every so often and sounding very much enthused.

' _Gilbert, look! We're getting closer. Oh, Gilbert! Can we go see the Kremlin before we leave? I'd like that. The cathedral, too. Since we're going to be together again._ '

Gilbert only smiled.

He was just remembering Ludwig as a child, probably, who had always been excited to go off and see new things. Why wouldn't Ludwig be excited to see Russia for the first time? It was endearing, to hear such eagerness in Ludwig's deep, rumbling voice. He hadn't done anything to make Ludwig sound like _that_ in so many years.

The road passed.

Eduard glanced at him, but sensed his melancholy and stayed silent.

How much longer before they reached Moscow? Once in Moscow, how many days—weeks!—before he found there what he sought? The dread was ever creeping upon him.

They had only driven for four or so hours before they suddenly paused again, and when Eduard pulled the vehicle into another little stop, Gilbert felt his agitation growing. Did they have to stop so frequently?

Eduard seemed supremely unconcerned. Carefree. Confident.

The snow was deepening.

"Why are we stopping?" he asked, perhaps petulantly, but Eduard was patient, and seemed unfazed by his harsh voice as he cut the ignition.

The sun was high.

"Afternoons and evenings are the worst times to be on the road," he began, gently. "There are roadblocks, here and there. It's better to lie low for now. If you had a good fake ID, it would be different. But. Oh well." He saw Gilbert's look, and added, with a laugh, "What, you came all this way just to be caught in a car by some nosy cop? Wanna go back like that, man?"

Gilbert furrowed his brow, and fell back, crossing his arms irritably. Inconvenient.

"We'll drive all night and in the mornings, but I don't want to risk too much."

Gilbert didn't want such delays. He didn't want to hang around here in Russia any longer than necessary. This shitty place. Even if Ludwig was having fun sight-seeing.

"And I have to sleep, too, you know," Eduard suddenly tossed out, with a smile, and Gilbert's frustration dulled down into resignation.

Even though he _hated_ it, he had to let Eduard do as he pleased, because this was Eduard's car and Eduard's hard work and Eduard's sacrifice, not his, and Eduard was risking his life and freedom just to help him. He could not protest if Eduard wanted to stop and rest.

Owed that guy, anything, anything at all.

Begrudgingly, Gilbert crossed his arms and leaned against the window as Eduard pulled his coat tightly around himself, huddling into a little ball. A few moments of silence, and Eduard was out like a light. Gilbert was left alone with Ludwig, who was leaning forward, resting his arms upon the top of the seat, leering down at Gilbert with a knowing smile that made him suddenly uneasy.

' _Just go back, Gilbert. It'll be better for you. You won't make it._ '

The words hurt. Ludwig didn't trust him. Brave Ludwig, who knew no fear.

He would never go back. Not without Ludwig.

He could only shake his head as Ludwig stared him down, and it was with a weak voice that he managed to whisper, once he made sure that Eduard was fast asleep, "I won't go back. I won't. I won't give up. Not on you."

' _You did so many times before._ '

Now Gilbert twisted in his seat, and leaned forward too, clenching his hands together as he met Ludwig's icy eyes. He was almost too ashamed to keep the gaze, but did so, barely, and tried to smile.

"But not this time! I won't this time, I swear. It won't be like before, you know. I... I don't drink anymore, I _don't_. Not since last year, I haven't had _any._ It won't be like before, I promise."

And, oh god, it was true. He hadn't drank in _so_ long. So long. It had killed him, every bit of him, had hurt like hell, but he had done it. Hadn't fuckin' drank in a damn year. No pills. No drugs. Nothing. Had been building up to that escape, that grand escape, and had wanted to be sober when he crossed the wall, wanted to be clear-headed when he had Ludwig in his arms again.

He didn't want to _disappoint_ Ludwig anymore.

He didn't drink anymore.

He wished that he had done it earlier. It should have been young Ludwig that drank so heavily, as all young men have the right to do, spending all night out at bars and with friends. It should have been Ludwig that came home drunk and staggering. Not him. He should have grown out of that phase, as Ludwig no doubt would have had it been reversed, but he never had. Shameful. Thirty-four years old and acting like a goddamn teenager. He had deprived Ludwig of a childhood.

Ludwig watched him, idly, cool eyes looking him up and down. Gilbert could not bear it. He needed reassurance.

"Once we're back together," he whispered, fervently, "I'll make it all up to you, I swear I will. I'll do anything you want me to. I'll do anything."

He meant it. He would do anything to regain Ludwig's trust. Ludwig's respect. Ludwig's adoration. Anything.

Ludwig only stared at him, with a tilted head of curiosity, like a dog. Calculating his honesty.

Ludwig had no faith in him.

How could Ludwig keep faith in him after years of such drastic ups and downs? How could Ludwig keep faith in him when he would rather have started a fight than just sit still at home?

Fight.

He had fought with Ludwig too many times to count. He hadn't meant it. He hadn't ever _meant_ it, those horrible things he sometimes said. He hadn't ever _meant_ to hit him in those moments of intoxicated fury—he would never hurt Ludwig intentionally. Not Ludwig. It had just happened. He got so angry, sometimes.

The whole thing was his fault, he knew. There was no denying it. He wouldn't even try. But even so...

Maybe Gilbert had hit Ludwig before, but it wasn't like Ludwig hadn't turned around and hit him right back. Harder. Ludwig hit far harder. It wasn't like Ludwig had just sat there and _cried_. It wasn't like that. Ludwig had hit him back. So it wasn't like Ludwig had ever been scared of him. Maybe he had hated him, sometimes, and maybe they had spent entire nights just screaming at each other, but Ludwig had never been _afraid_ of him. Never.

Ludwig had never feared him.

If he _had_ , he would never have let Gilbert cling on to him the next day as he fought off his hangover. And he would have never have just sat there and let Gilbert hold him against his chest and bury his face in his hair. He wouldn't have laid there on the couch, either, smiling as they apologized for their various trespasses and giggled over each other's bruises.

Ludwig wasn't afraid of him. It wasn't like that. Ludwig knew that it had never been malicious.

Glancing over to make sure that Eduard was still asleep, Gilbert leaned forward, and whispered, "I _swear_ Ludwig, once I get you back I won't _ever_ lose you again. I swear. I'll do anything. Anything you want me to do, I'll do it. I'll do all that stuff you wanted me to. I'll go back to the doctor. I'll get pills, I'll go talk to the fuckin' therapist, I'll stay _home_. I'll do anything you want. I swear."

He could not stand Ludwig's silent stare.

Couldn't Ludwig understand that it would be different this time? He would act his age. He would play the role of big brother. He would assume the responsibilities he had always neglected.

"Don't you believe me?"

Silence, and then, finally, Ludwig smiled.

' _Sure, Gilbert_ ,' he said, but despite his smile and his confirmation, there was something in his voice, something under the surface of calm, that made Gilbert's heart sink. Skepticism. Ludwig was just humoring him.

Wanted to cry, but instead, he huddled up like Eduard had and tried to sleep. Suddenly didn't want to be awake anymore.

Snow drifted down. Time passed peacefully.

The high sun faded down into the horizon, he drifted in and out of a fitful sleep as Ludwig hummed to himself in the backseat, and finally, as the fierce winds picked up outside, Eduard woke up with a shiver.

The air was colder than ever. Night was near.

For a bleary second, Eduard only looked back and forth, lethargically, and then stretched out with a deep groan, taking his glasses up from the dashboard and putting them on as he stifled a yawn. Gilbert, just as lethargic, leaned his head against the window and waited for the car to start moving again. The sooner this whole thing was over, the better. His threshold was growing near.

Moments of settling in and a cup of coffee later, Eduard was ready to go, and as the snow fell all around them, grey against the night sky, he finally struck up conversation again.

He could see, perhaps, Gilbert's desperation.

"You know," Eduard began, a little condescendingly, "sometimes talking to someone can make things a lot easier." Gilbert grunted an incomprehensible reply, but Eduard was undeterred. "You've obviously got a lot on your mind. We might be stuck together for a while, you know, so why don't you tell me what's going on?"

Hesitation.

Ludwig was quiet in the back. Asleep, maybe.

He _wanted_ to talk to someone, god knew he did, but he couldn't really stand to relive such shame. To admit to someone his horrible failure. To tell someone that he had been stupid enough to lose his own fuckin' brother.

He only stared out of the window at the drifting snow, and Eduard's voice was steadily lowering from cheerfulness into something almost like disappointment as he said, "Look at you. You came here for something, so bad that you went through all that, and you still won't ask for help. Where do you expect to get like that?"

For a moment, Gilbert started up, brow low and eyes wide, because it sounded just like Ludwig all over again, chastising him for being so stubborn. He disappointed everyone. Alfred. Roderich. Erzsébet. Ludwig. Now he was already disappointing Eduard, a man he did not even know.

It was too much.

That was why he opened his mouth, then, and told Eduard as much as he was willing to.

With neat alterations, of course, and he completely omitted the Russian from the story, for fear of a backlash. Instead, he created a half-true story of how his own stupidity had brought something horrible upon his little brother, and that that horrible something had brought his brother out here somewhere in Moscow, and that was why he was out here now, to find him.

Eduard only listened, and did not pry, and from the look on his face, he probably didn't _want_ to know what that horrible something _was_.

A short silence, and then Eduard shifted his weight, awkwardly, and said, in a very thin voice, "Brother, huh? Brothers are supposed to protect each other."

Gilbert could only nod, and somehow Eduard's previous words seemed to turn against him, and maybe it was Eduard, in truth, who had a horrible something that he had been neglecting to talk about. Eduard was struggling with something. Finally, he found his voice, and spoke. Gilbert returned the favor, and listened.

The dark roads passed.

"You know," Eduard began, and something in his voice had changed. A dark, almost dreary kind of _longing_ , or maybe it was regret, as he said, lowly, "I had someone who was kind of like a brother to me once. I'd always wanted a brother, and I thought I would have done anything for him. Like you, you know? We were supposed to protect each other. Look out for each other."

Gilbert shifted, uncomfortably, as Eduard's eyes became as dark as his voice and Ludwig took up whispering in his ear, and after a terrible silence, he managed to ask, weakly, "What happened to him?"

Silence.

Ludwig's voice was deep and smooth. Calm.

Eduard shook his head, heaved a great sigh, and there was something _awful_ there, and finally Eduard said, "I don't know. Something happened one night, and I got scared. I ran away. I could have taken him with me, I guess, maybe, but I left him behind instead. I haven't seen him since. That was...god, six years ago. I don't even know if he's still alive or not. We promised that we'd take care of each other. That we'd look out for each other. But I let him down. I ran away. I left him behind. And there isn't a day that goes by that I don't _hate_ myself for it."

Hate.

Maybe he and Eduard understood each other more than he had first imagined. Because, god, he hated himself too.

"And that's why you smuggle people across the borders," Gilbert said, without thinking, and Eduard looked over at him, glasses glinting eerily in the dim glow of the interior lights.

The snow fell. A dry laugh.

"Yeah. That's why."

To assuage a guilty conscience. Eduard had let someone down, and so he tried to redeem himself by helping others in need. That was why he was in this car now, driving a man he did not know all the way into the heart of the USSR.

To make up for it.

"It's not gonna make it any better," Gilbert added, sternly, and after a short, thick silence, Eduard snorted.

"No. It won't. I realized that a long time ago." He shook his head, mostly to himself, and followed up with, "But I still do it anyway. If I didn't help people now, I'd just..."

"Go crazy?" Gilbert offered, and Eduard nodded.

A look, an odd shift of Eduard's shoulder, and then Eduard began, carefully, "If you want me to hang around and help you... I would. If you asked, I would, you know. All ya gotta do is ask."

"...thanks."

Gilbert was glad for it.

Falling silent, their words exhausted, Eduard just drove, and Gilbert tried to sleep.

Ludwig's voice in his ear made it easy.

' _Gilbert, don't give up. We were supposed to be together. Remember? You promised. Don't give up on me_.'

Never. He was on his way. He wouldn't fail.

Not again.


	28. Surface Tension

**Chapter 28**

**Surface Tension**

It wasn't _his_ problem.

The atmosphere was shifting. Something was changing here. He could sense it.

It just didn't feel the same as it had before, and Ivan's mood was _so_ good that it was alarming at best, and absolutely terrifying at worst. It wasn't the same, and now when he passed Ivan in the halls, walking so confidently as he always did, arms behind his back and chin held high, there was a strange look upon his face, and sometimes Ivan even smiled at _him_ , knowingly and obviously quite happily.

Something was changing. Toris could _feel_ it.

He had no doubt that it was because of Ludwig. Ivan was in such a good mood because Ludwig was here. Ivan was pleased with Ludwig. Ivan was expecting something _more_ from Ludwig.

For what, exactly, Toris could not yet say. In all honesty, he really didn't want to know, and he told himself repeatedly that he didn't even _care_. Why should _he_ care what happened to Ludwig? Ludwig wasn't his concern. Ludwig was Ivan's project. Ludwig was Ivan's responsibility. Ludwig was Ivan's self-appointed burden. Not his. Ludwig wasn't _his_ concern.

Ivan had taken Ludwig up for himself. Toris had nothing to do with that.

And so he convinced himself, every second of every day, that even though he found Ludwig to his liking, that even though he admired Ludwig's bravery, that even though he was sympathetic to the horrible situation that Ludwig had found himself thrust into, it just wasn't his problem.

He was not obligated to look out for Ludwig. He had looked out for people in the past, and he had been let down. Over and over. He was only human; how much disappointment was he expected to take? He was tired of exhausting himself for others and getting nothing in return.

Ludwig was not his concern. It was as simple as that.

It was simple.

So, god, why did it make his chest ache so to be around him?

Stupid Ludwig, that dumb kid. Ludwig didn't _get_ it. Didn't seem to really understand where he was or what he was or with whom. Looked so damn confused all the time.

Toris couldn't really stand the feeling that came up when Ludwig was around him.

When Ludwig came after him in the halls, following behind him or walking at his side, trying to strike up conversation that Toris did not want to engage in, or when Ludwig sat with them at the table, sending him amicable looks and being generally good-natured as Toris tried to avert his eyes, when Ludwig acted like they were _friends_ , when Toris had done nothing to give Ludwig such an impression. Hated that feeling.

He liked Ludwig. That was why it was better to keep distant from him. Nothing good would come from being friends with Ludwig. Friends. There were no such thing as _friends_. Not really. Ivan had never let him forget that.

_Who would ever want to be friends with you?_

In this world, it was every man for himself.

In the end, Ludwig would probably betray him somehow, too. He had already betrayed Ludwig.

He tried not to think of that now, as he stood in a bare room that he wanted to furnish, and it was with far too much effort that he tried to keep his mind on paint colors and carpet texture and flattering paintings rather than Ludwig.

It was easier to stay distant from him. It wouldn't hurt that way.

Ludwig just didn't seem to _understand_. Didn't get that Toris avoided him for a reason.

"What are you doing?"

A deep whisper behind him, so low that he almost didn't hear it, and when Toris looked over his shoulder, there was Ludwig, like always, standing in the doorframe and watching him with those pale eyes, and Toris shifted his weight. Ludwig, who always sought him out, longing for a friend, no doubt, in this new world.

Why wouldn't he just understand?

It wasn't Ludwig's fault. Ludwig just wanted reassurance and companionship. It shouldn't have been so hard to give him what he wanted, and it wasn't _fair_ , but every time Toris saw Ludwig he could not completely push away that little twinge of resentment in his chest.

Bitterness.

Toris wondered to himself, irritably, why Ludwig wanted to come after _him_ when Ivan was obviously so goddamn eager to have him around and coddle him every five minutes and compliment him and embrace him and tell him everything he wanted to hear. Ludwig could get reassurance and companionship from Ivan. Let Ivan keep his friendship.

Ludwig had been here for all of four months and was already a fuckin' colonel—

"Toris?"

Ludwig was watching him expectantly from where he stood, maybe a bit apprehensively, and Toris could see from the bracing of his feet that he was preparing for a clipped, bristling response.

...was he so harsh with Ludwig?

It wasn't Ludwig's fault.

The resentment faded into something like guilt—yet another reason he strove to avoid Ludwig, because feeling bad was not pleasant—and finally, Toris shrugged a shoulder, and muttered, "Daydreaming."

Ludwig smiled, in relief, and his look clearly said, 'Oh, good, I got him in a _good_ mood for once!'

Yeah. He was an asshole to Ludwig, he knew that. It wasn't that he wanted to be, really, so much as that he needed to be. He didn't mean to take out his frustrations on Ludwig, but did anyway because it was for the best.

Toris fell still, and Ludwig seemed perfectly content to just sit there and stare at him. Big idiot. Finally Toris heaved a sigh and brushed past him, retreating into the halls and hoping that he could lose Ludwig in the maze of the twists and turns. An impossibility, however, because Ludwig's long legs outpaced him, and Ludwig's sharp eyes would not miss a move he made, and he kept right at Toris' side, hands tucked in his pockets and observing his surroundings quietly.

Toris was stuck with him. Again.

They walked in silence, because Toris had nothing to say, nothing nice, anyhow, and Ludwig seemed strangely thoughtful, his feet sure and steady and never faltering. Not fumbling around as he usually did. He was calm. Subdued.

Toris could only imagine what had happened the other night, when Ivan had dragged Ludwig out of the safety of the fire-lit room and pulled him upstairs to give him _his_ idea of a Christmas gift. No doubt Ludwig had seen his brand new papers, and that was why he walked so surely now, because Ivan had given him a new life and a new name and now he was _someone_ here. Identity was no doubt a confidence booster.

Colonel Müller.

That miserable son of a bitch. And he wasn't sure if he meant Ludwig or Ivan.

Damn Ludwig.

Colonel? Colonel. Toris had worked _so_ hard to impress Ivan, he had done so many things to get up to lieutenant, so many godawful things, years and years of struggling, and yet somehow Ludwig came along and took up a higher rank without even trying.

Just because Ludwig appealed to Ivan's fantastical ideal of a perfect man.

That burned him.

It wasn't Ludwig's _fault_ , but that didn't mean that it stung any less to see Ivan fawning over him every chance he got. Going through so much trouble just to make sure that Ludwig would never leave the snows of Siberia. Looking at Ludwig like that when Toris had busted his ass just to get Ivan to even glance at him.

It had just been a spur of the moment thing. Ivan had wanted Ludwig because he was handsome and bold. It had just been the whim of a bored Ivan. How could Toris have predicted that Ludwig would suddenly become so goddamn important? Who could have imagined that Ivan would have taken to him like he had? Toris had expected (and maybe Ivan had too) at best a few months of amusement from troublesome Ludwig before Ludwig escaped in a way, as the last one had.

It had just been a game. Maybe Ivan had won more than he had bargained for. Ivan was suddenly absolutely taken with Ludwig.

How had this happened?

Toris could suddenly hear Ivan's voice in his head, and it was with a horrible burn of envy that he recalled Ivan saying dreamily to him, as Ludwig had been bleeding all over the floor up in _that room_ on the eighth day, 'Isn't he great? Look, twice as long as you now! Who would have thought a damn _German_ could be so great? What a fuckin' relief—god knows I didn't want another _you_ here.'

Another _you_.

Like Toris was a waste of space. Like he was a great disappointment. Like he had somehow become a burden; an annoying guest that had long overstayed his welcome.

Another _you_. Ivan's great miscalculation. He was nothing of particular importance to Ivan.

Just an amusement, maybe, a pencil-pushing punching bag whose only usefulness was to complete the papers that bored Ivan and to drive the car wherever Ivan wanted to go and to translate into Lithuanian and Czech and Polish when it was necessary (but not German—not anymore). Whose only purpose here was to come running when Ivan called and to stand silent and still as Ivan crushed the world beneath his boots and to be available whenever Ivan needed something done. Whose only talent was in being mindlessly obedient and unquestioning, willing to do horrible things, to commit horrible betrayals, just because Ivan said to do so.

To be there to accept Ivan's very physical frustration when something didn't go his way.

Ivan tolerated his presence here. But Ivan didn't like him. Ivan had dressed him up and taught him to operate within a military world. But Ivan didn't respect him. Ivan had given him a gun and a rank and taught him to survive Siberia. But Ivan didn't admire him. Ivan _trusted_ him, even with his life, to do everything he said, and gave him reasonable freedom to come and go in this frozen land as he pleased. But Ivan didn't _care_ about him.

Not like Ludwig.

Was there such a difference between them, really? Him and Ludwig. Were they so different?

Ivan had never been discreet or secretive in his fancies, Toris had known that from the very first day. It was so easy to figure out Ivan's inclinations, because Ivan spoke with his eyes, as most men did. Toris had spent years watching Ivan watching other men, and it hadn't taken long to piece it all together. Ivan was a very typical Slavic male, egotistical and confident and ultra-masculine, not afraid to chase what he wanted, not afraid to put himself out there boldly, and so figuring out Ivan's 'type', so to speak, had been very easy.

Ivan loved men that lived up to the expectations he held for himself. Loved men that were intelligent, strong, brave. Loved fearless men, ones that commanded attention when they walked into a room. Loved men that were collected and sure, as bold as he was. It was so easy to look at a rough man like Ivan and assume that he would have gone for something fairer, weaker, as truly masculine as he was, but that wasn't the case. Ivan seemed to seek out someone who was just as masculine as himself, and Toris had always found that strange, but fascinating.

Above all else, however, that man absolutely had to be blond. No negotiations. Must have been some critical part of Ivan's made-up perfect man. Had to be blond, and pale eyes and skin were preferable. Could have found a man that matched every single criteria Ivan could have ever wanted, but if he wasn't blond, Ivan would have turned his head with disinterest.

Ivan considered himself perfect, and somehow expected to actually find that impossibly perfect equal that he had created up in his head.

Maybe he had, at long last.

As they walked, Toris spared a quick glance at Ludwig from the corner of his eye, observing his counterpart's appearance with a furrowed brow.

...counterpart? Maybe his competitor.

Pale and blond, check. Brave, check. Collected and intelligent, check.

Ludwig walked loosely and almost silently, looking straight ahead with an unwavering gaze, pale as snow and hair loose and eyes tired. The cuts on his hands were finally starting to heal, and from the smooth gait, his feet must have been healing too. He was lither now than he had been, too thin, but that was expected from his numerous encounters with such dangerous circumstances, and if Irina had her way—and she would—that would not last for long.

Once Ludwig got healthier and put on weight, put on muscle, he really would have fit into Ivan's exclusive category of perfection.

Ludwig was wearing one of Ivan's shirts.

He looked _different_. That was pretty obvious, even if Toris couldn't exactly put his finger on what it was.

Ludwig felt him staring, and looked over. When their eyes locked, suddenly Toris' feelings of bitterness were gone, as it struck him how _strange_ Ludwig's eyes were. Almost unreadable. Like trying to look through a thick fog. It had been easy to read Ludwig before. Fear and hopelessness had been immediately obvious. He could tell what had been going on in Ludwig's mind. He could _always_ tell what Ludwig was feeling.

But not anymore.

Fog.

He couldn't tell what Ludwig was thinking now, assuming, of course, that he _was_. Maybe Ludwig didn't think anymore. Maybe Ivan did all the thinking for him now.

_Oh_. That thought hurt.

Ludwig looked so _different_. This wasn't the same bold Ludwig that had taken a swing at him and knocked him unconscious on the train. Or even the same fiery Ludwig that had been so angry at him for ruining his run in Lensk. Not the defiant Ludwig that had shoved him, that talked back to him, that told him damn well exactly how much of a jerk he thought Toris was.

This Ludwig just looked eerily tranquil, and almost unresponsive. A ghost, wandering through the mists of Siberia. His shoulders were low and slumped, and Toris could only imagine that Ivan's heavy hands were upon them, even when he wasn't present. Hell, he didn't imagine—he _knew_. Because that was how he felt, too, wasn't it?

Ivan was _always_ there, even when he was gone. Ivan wasn't a man. Ivan was god, maybe. Impervious and infallible and always _knowing_. Always _seeing_. Toris couldn't even remember the last time he had had a thought cross his mind without wondering if Ivan would approve of him having that thought in the first place.

Ivan was god.

He shouldn't have resented Ludwig. He and Ludwig weren't different at all.

Only Ivan's expectations were different. Ivan had found his perfect man, at last, and so of course Ivan was so intent on never letting him go. One in a million, this encounter.

"Are you feeling alright, Toris?" suddenly came Ludwig's whisper, and it struck him too that Ludwig's voice was strangely smooth and almost silvery. Not the scratchy rumble that he was used to.

Maybe Ivan had started speaking for Ludwig, too.

The thought made him shudder, and Toris could only reply, "Sure. Are you?"

A silence, and then Ludwig smiled again, serenely. "Sure."

And the scary part was that Ludwig really meant it. Ludwig was fine. Just fine. Accepting. Submissive. Calm.

Ivan wanted something more from Ludwig. Ivan could _see_ something there in Ludwig. Something that Toris could see, too, even if he couldn't quite put his finger on it. Ludwig was just like him _now_ , sure, but there was _something_ underneath Ludwig's frightening tranquility. Something stirring, like the slow moving of river water beneath the thick sheet of ice.

That was why Ivan had been in such a good mood lately, because maybe Ivan had finally found someone that could endure his madness. Maybe even match it, in the right circumstances.

They were the same now, he and Ludwig, but Ivan seemed confident that Ludwig could move forward. Rise above. It was a strange notion, one that Toris couldn't really understand or comprehend, because he had never been able to overcome the mists and see above them. He couldn't understand Ivan's mind. Maybe Ludwig could.

Go figure. Kindhearted, gentle, brave Ludwig.

It had just been a _game_. Who could have known? Maybe Toris should just go ahead and start standing up straight and saluting every time he saw Ludwig and say, 'Good morning, colonel!'

It might turn out that way, in the end.

That same loyalty to his brother and burning resolve that had made Ludwig such a challenge had suddenly been turned around, and there was no doubt in Toris' mind that Ivan was very close to harnessing that loyalty and that resolve and directing it towards himself. And from there...?

Toris could not imagine.

It would be better to distance himself from Ludwig. No good would come from being friends with him. Maybe it was even dangerous.

Toris knew everything about Ludwig, and knew that it was wise to stay distant and cold. Knew that Ludwig's stability was too shaky to rest comfortably upon.

Toris had so many folders full of papers from Berlin that it was almost overwhelming. Papers he had had no business seeing. Yet he had sat there and studied them nonetheless, and relayed everything dutifully to Ivan.

He knew everything about Ludwig, if only through the foolish Gilbert, everything that could ever have been hoped to learn. Had every single record of Gilbert there on his desk. Doctor records, school records, police reports, housing forms. Hell, he even had financial records. He had access to Gilbert's empty bank account.

He had access to the one single record that Ludwig actually had.

Toris could have told Ivan, had Ivan asked, what bars Gilbert frequented and what shops Ludwig liked and who Gilbert bought his pills from and even how often Ludwig spoke to the Austrian ambassador on the phone. He could have told Ivan what size shoe Gilbert wore and the name of the man who cut Ludwig's hair every month.

He knew everything.

And so he knew, and of course that meant that Ivan knew too, that Ludwig's life with his brother had been shaky, to say the least, and yet Ludwig had somehow remained unwaveringly loyal to Gilbert, to the point of sacrificing himself. For a man who had a police record so long that it had taken Toris an _hour_ just to flip through all the pages. For a man whose court-appointed therapist had labeled him ' _dangerously mentally defective, no clear sense of right and wrong as pertains to himself, reckless, highly aggressive, impulsive and brash; a threat to himself and others'_.

Yet Ludwig would have done anything for him. So how loyal would Ludwig become to Ivan, who was even _more_ mentally defective but who could also offer a more stable—ha, that word!—home environment?

Ludwig's mind was not completely sound, either.

That one record of Ludwig. The only one in existence.

It was from that same court therapist, who had been greatly concerned about Ludwig's seeming acceptance and placidity towards Gilbert's volatile nature. Toris would never forget the words written on that paper : ' _Seems to have a what-can-I-do? attitude. In denial. Accepts abnormal relationship despite warning signs. Self-blames easily. Seems to believe that dangerous relationship is better than none at all. Possible abandonment issues. Blurred sense of identity. Detached initially, then latches strongly to others. Susceptible to manipulation. Psychologist_ _highly_ _recommended_.'

Good-natured Ludwig, whose mysterious and lonely childhood had left him with attachment issues so severe that he would go to hell and back for someone like Gilbert. So what would he do for someone like Ivan?

Oh, that awful look of triumph on Ivan's face when he had read those notes...

Toris had betrayed Ludwig the moment he had started reading those papers.

To see Ludwig standing here, so pale and passive and to know that _he_ was partly responsible for extinguishing that fire, was too much. Felt so shitty about it, but that wasn't really a new feeling. Hated himself for it, but that was fine, because Toris had hated himself for years. Why stop now?

Just wanted Ludwig to go away.

Trying to get rid of Ludwig, like he always did, Toris finally stopped in his tracks and said, snappily, "Why are you following me? Shouldn't you be with Ivan? Don't you have anything better to do? Leave me alone for once, won't you?"

A passing of hurt through Ludwig's pale eyes, but it was gone as quickly as it had come, hidden behind the mists, and Ludwig only stared at him, and shrugged a shoulder, calmly.

It occurred to Toris, and that little bit of hurt had proved it, that Ludwig was still _there_. Ludwig, the real Ludwig, was still there, even if he was less visible than before. But he was still there, _somewhere_. Deep down and buried, too afraid of Ivan to come out, but there all the same.

For now.

It was only a matter of time before _that_ Ludwig was gone completely, before he forgot himself under Ivan's smooth words.

Forgetting was so easy out here, and sometimes, when his mind wandered, Toris would start upright and realize that he didn't even remember his parents' names. He couldn't remember the look of his home. He couldn't remember the smell of the grass or the feel of the wind. Sometimes, he couldn't even picture _his_ face.

He had forgotten. How could he have _forgotten_? He couldn't remember.

Ludwig was starting to forget things, too.

"If I'm bothering you," Ludwig said, gently, "I'm sorry. I just didn't want to be alone."

Alone. Who wanted to be alone? Toris didn't, but he didn't want to be with Ludwig, either.

"Where's Ivan?" Toris managed to ask, and the smile on Ludwig's face made his chest hurt.

"Out in town with Irina. He should be back soon, but I thought we could do something together for now."

A hopeful suggestion.

Ludwig. Poor Ludwig.

Oh, couldn't stand it. Seeing Ludwig like that.

"What's there to do?" Toris snipped, and tried to stalk off, feeling his tail firmly between his legs, but Ludwig just kept _following_ him. "Why don't you go bother the cat instead? I'm sure it won't mind being around you all the time. So stop following me. I'm not in the mood to talk to you." Ludwig was on his heels. Agitation growing. He couldn't stand it. "Leave me _alone_! Go sit up in bed and wait for Ivan to come back and hold your hand. I'm surprised you even managed to open the door without him telling you how to."

He didn't _mean_ it.

As if Toris could do something without Ivan telling him to. Hypocrite. But he aimed to wound because, god, he'd rather that Ludwig punched him in the face again than just brush off his words so easily.

Maybe Ludwig had a reply, but if so, then it was cut off by another voice before it had been formed.

A hiss in Russian.

"Such bold words from a man who once fell to his knees and grabbed me by the legs, crying for nearly an hour just so that I would remove the lock from his bedroom door. Because he couldn't _sleep_."

A horrible rush of warmth on his cheeks, and Toris felt himself go rigid in that mechanical reaction that he had no control over as Ivan was suddenly before them, materializing as though from thin air from the door of his office (which Toris had not realized he was passing), hair windswept and looking somewhat hassled; Irina was to blame, no doubt.

His eyes were scorching as he stared, and Toris was glad that Ludwig had not understood the words, because it would have shamed him. Embarrassing. Had forgotten about that, thanks.

He couldn't move, suddenly. Ivan's presence was overwhelming.

Beside of him, he could see that Ludwig's stance shifted too, but much differently.

When Ivan was around, Toris tensed up so terribly that he found it difficult to recover his reflexes, and sometimes his muscles clenched and he was stuck in helpless immobility, like a deer in headlights. It was automatic; he couldn't stop it from happening. It had been beaten into him for the last ten years. Couldn't help it.

Ludwig had developed an automatic reaction as well.

But instead of rigid fear, he seemed to fall loose. Where Toris' muscles contracted, his relaxed. His shoulders dropped all the lower, his arms fell limp at his sides, and his head dropped, just a bit. Almost unnoticeable, barely perceptible, but Toris saw it. Toris stiffened in complete attention. Ludwig collapsed into complete submission. A stance of passivity. Subconscious submission. Ludwig probably didn't even realize it had happened. He probably didn't realize that he was smiling, either.

Finally, mercifully, Ivan released Toris from his suffocating gaze, turning his pale eyes to Ludwig, who seemed to appreciate the stare more than he feared it.

Then again, it wouldn't be so bad to be under Ivan's gaze if he looked at _him_ like _that_. Tranquilly. Adoringly. With fondness rather than annoyance.

...damn, there was that resentment again.

Sure, it was _easy_ for Ludwig. Ivan prized Ludwig. It wouldn't be so bad if Ivan could look at him like that. God knows he'd tried for so long. Just hadn't ever been able to impress Ivan.

A step on the tile, and Ivan came forward, placing a gloved palm against Ludwig's pale cheek and transitioning smoothly from Russian to always improving German as he murmured, reassuringly, "Don't bother with him, Ludwig. I promise I'll take you along next time so you won't have to suffer being around _Toris_."

A pang of hurt, and even though he had said and thought _horrible_ things about Ludwig, some part of him hoped that Ludwig would shake his head and say, 'I don't mind being around Toris!' because he _needed_ to hear words like that. Kind words.

Ludwig just stood there, smiling weakly, and didn't say a thing. Not a thing. Toris should have expected as much. He had done nothing to earn such a defense, anyhow. Jackass that he was. All he ever did was snap at Ludwig and still expected Ludwig to come running. Ha.

Ivan's thumb ran across Ludwig's high cheek bone, and Toris made a point of averting his eyes, reluctant to see _that_ look upon Ivan's face. It shouldn't have hurt as much it did.

How long had _he_ been here? He had done everything Ivan had wanted him to. And yet, despite his years of loyal servitude, all he ever heard _now_ was...

"Come in here, Ludwig, I have something I want you to do for me."

Ludwig.

Ludwig, Ludwig, Ludwig. That was all that seemed to come out of Ivan's mouth now. It was making Toris crazy. Ludwig.

Sometimes, he just wanted to reach up and cover his ears and moan, 'Will you just shut the fuck _up_ about _Ludwig_?'

Ludwig. Ludwig.

_Lyudovik_.

Oh, he _hated_ the eerie way Ivan crooned Ludwig's name. The sound of it was unnerving. Wrong. Fuckin' Ludwig. Swear to god, he was gonna snap if Ivan said Ludwig's name one more goddamn time.

But he was sure that Ludwig had no problem being the center of attention, as he allowed Ivan to take his hand and lead him into the office, a place he had never been before then, at least not to Toris' knowledge, and he was probably _happy_ about it, absolutely clueless of how unfair it was. Let them be together. Let Ludwig do Ivan's bidding. He had no intention of following them now.

Something for Ludwig to do? He didn't want to know.

Shuddering, Toris turned on his heel and made to escape.

He was unsuccessful.

"Ah, ah, _ah_ ," came the high-pitched chirp from behind, and Toris froze in his tracks, a rise of fear and annoyance forcing him to wrench his head back and look over his shoulder.

Ivan was watching him, expectantly. Amusedly. Arms crossed and chin low, leering away at Toris with a smile.

"You too, Toris."

Well, shit.

Without hesitation, Toris returned stiffly to the door, head pounding as he followed Ludwig into the office, even though he dreaded it. Why did he have to be present? Nothing good, for sure.

The office had not been an occupied place lately, not since Ludwig had been here, and Ivan had been content to let it sit there unused in favor of clutching Ludwig up against him in every corner of the house and saddling Toris with the majority of paperwork. Hated this office nowadays, always cooped up in it as he was. Hadn't had so much damn paperwork since back _then_.

Giant maps covered the walls—Ivan _loved_ maps, he couldn't ever take his eyes off them—and stacks of folders were strewn about everywhere, papers falling out of drawers and little notes thumb-tacked to every available space. Organized chaos, because despite the clutter, Ivan could make a beeline for a certain document and pluck it out of nowhere when need be. How, exactly, Toris could not say, but he knew he didn't dare try to reorganize it.

Ivan's memory was razor-sharp and photographic. Ivan remembered _everything_. Made it impossible to ever lie to him.

The click of the door behind him, and Toris shifted his weight anxiously as Ivan brushed past him and settled himself down at the desk, upon which there was another map. Ivan set his fingers upon it, and turned his gaze over to Ludwig, who stood still and silent in the corner, and his smile became a leer.

Toris had a horrible suspicion. An uncomfortable squirm in his stomach. Fuckin' map on the desk like that, that smile on Ivan's face...

A suspicion.

"Come here," Ivan suddenly beckoned, his voice smooth and cheerful over the silence, and Toris could only watch as Ludwig obeyed, taking a step forward and coming to the end of the desk. Not close enough for Ivan, obviously, for he lifted his finger and signaled for Ludwig to come ever forward.

A glance upwards, and Ludwig's pale eyes had suddenly locked into Toris' own, as though mentally pleading with Toris to somehow take away his anxiety. How could he? He couldn't help Ludwig. Couldn't even help himself. Forsaking Ludwig yet again, now too many times to count, Toris dropped his head, and stared firmly at the desk. He couldn't help Ludwig. Ivan would have his way, in the end. No point in fighting it. Ludwig would learn, eventually. One way or another.

"Come over here," Ivan coaxed and reached out his hand, grabbing up Ludwig's sleeve and pulling him around until he was all but on top of him, and Toris could hear the eagerness in Ivan's voice as he added, "Here, look, I want to show you something. It's alright. Let's call it a game!"

A game.

Ivan's games were never fun. Sometimes, losing Ivan's games resulted in sudden death. And sometimes _winning_ Ivan's games resulted in sudden death. Toris knew right off what game Ivan was going to play with Ludwig. He had played it himself, a long time ago.

Ludwig, unknowing, just stared down as Ivan took up a marker and drew three great black circles upon the map.

Toris spared a glance, and could see Ludwig's pulse racing in his pale neck, even though he seemed to be trying very hard to keep his face impassive. Trying to be brave, as always. Poor Ludwig, doomed to live in this world of constant apprehension. To live feeling nothing but nervousness and unease.

Toris could only watch. He couldn't help.

He'd been taught only to hurt others, not help them. Hell; almost didn't know _how_ to help someone.

His scribbles complete, Ivan set the marker aside and reached out, grabbing hapless Ludwig by his belt and tugging him down, down, until he was settled neatly on Ivan's lap, back to Ivan's chest, and suddenly Ludwig was so pale that Toris would not have been particularly surprised if he just fainted right there. Toris wouldn't have blamed him, either, as Ivan's hands gripped his waist in an inescapable vice.

That dumb kid must have been pretty damn terrified right then.

Ivan stared at Toris intensely from above Ludwig's shoulder, unblinking eyes on fire. Trying to gloat to Toris, no doubt, about how wonderful Ludwig was. Yeah, wonderful, alright, ready to pass out as he was. Really impressive.

It would have been so shocking to an outsider, for someone from the real world to walk into this room, right now, and see this young kid looking so sick and pale, sitting on the lap of a man far older than him, gruff and huge and with the Soviet coat of arms pinned upon his breast. Would have been quite outrageous, but out here it was hardly anything worth even looking up for. Such worse things happened in the snows of Siberia, and it didn't shock Toris.

Ivan reached up and placed a hand above the map.

"Here, look, Ludwig. Look."

Silence, as Ludwig stared down at the map with a tilted head of confusion. Toris could still feel Ivan's eyes yet upon him, even as his hands guided Ludwig.

Oh, _why_ did he have to watch this?

"What am I looking at?" Ludwig finally asked, deep voice barely audible for its weakness, and Ivan leaned forward, resting his chin heavily upon Ludwig's shoulder.

Let the game begin.

Toris didn't want to watch. Somehow, he couldn't help it. As curious as he was horrified. Strange, being on the other side of this game. Toris raised his eyes, to see Ivan taking Ludwig's hand within his own and forcing it above each of those circles in turn.

"See these? Three rebel groups have come to our attention. Hardly a threat. But an annoyance. I've been asked to deal with these annoyances. See them? One in Kyiv. One in Sofia. One in Odessa."

Toris was squirming now more than Ludwig. Bad memories.

Ludwig opened his mouth as though to speak, but nothing came out, and finally he shook his head, and shrugged a shoulder, and it was obvious that he was helplessly confused. And why shouldn't he be? Ludwig was not military. Ludwig wasn't a soldier. Not a real colonel. He didn't know anything about these matters. He finally said as much, too, when he whispered, "I don't understand."

The words Ivan was waiting for.

"I want you to impress me, Ludwig. These groups are going to be taken care of, sooner or later. I prefer later, myself, I feel I'm too important to be dealing with little students throwing Molotov cocktails, but—ah, what can I do? These little things bore me, but I have to do what I have to do, and this will be good practice for you, won't it?"

Ludwig went even paler, if possible.

"For me?"

Toris felt sick.

Poor Ludwig. Ludwig hadn't stood a chance. Not a chance.

Ivan was excited now, as he brought Ludwig's finger above the dot that symbolized Moscow.

"This should be easy for you, right? You're so smart! Look. I have five thousand men at my disposal in Moscow. Armed and ready to go. More than enough to take care of these problems. I've been given extra tanks, and I plan on using every single one of them. Have you ever seen a tank, Ludwig? You'd like them. I love them. I admit I've been biding my time a bit on this, but it's just so boring to me. But, like I said, this is how you learn, right? You can handle students, can't you? Come on, tell me—which one should we hit first? Choose. Make me out a plan. Tell me where to send the tanks. Tell me how many men. They're hiding out in such little towns, right outside the cities. Towns can be burned. Come on. Impress me. Here."

Ivan forced the marker inside of Ludwig's hand, and Toris felt his heart sink down into his stomach at the terrible look on Ludwig's face as he sat there, frozen. Something like horror. Helplessness. Toris could see the sheen of cold sweat that had broken out above his brow. He suddenly looked as though he were seconds away from bursting into tears or throwing up.

This was the real Ludwig. Ludwig, who had been raised by an ambassador and who had had the intention of _helping_ people. Ludwig had wanted to help people. Not send death upon them. Gentle, kind Ludwig, who probably hadn't ever had a single violent thought before he had encountered Ivan.

"Come on."

Toris suddenly remembered, as though it were yesterday, the first time that Ivan had taken up _his_ hand and placed it upon that map, and forced him to choose who would die first. Surreal, almost, to be on the other side. Was that how he had looked back then? So sick?

Ludwig only sat there, stuck on Ivan's lap and staring down at the map with wide eyes, and Toris could see the struggle within him, as self-preservation battled with morality. Ivan had given Ludwig an order. Orders could not be disobeyed. Ludwig still had a conscience. Consciences could not be disobeyed, either.

Silence.

Toris wondered, deliriously, if Ludwig, had he been able to see into the future, would still have taken his brother's place if he knew it would mean having blood on his hands. Who could say?

Finally, Ludwig shook his head, once. Wordless refute. Refusal.

Ludwig refused.

Ivan didn't explode, though, not like he would have if _Toris_ ever shook his head, and Ivan's confidence never faltered as he pulled a sheet of paper out of one of those numerous folders, and set it down before the desk, forcing Ludwig's hand over until the tip of the marker touched the parchment.

"Everyone dies, Ludwig," he whispered, so quietly that Toris could barely hear, "It's just a matter of how. People kill. It's just war. National security. There's no wrong in it. Come on, it's not so hard! Take your time! It's so easy. Come on, it's just a game. How are we going to take care of this?"

We.

Ivan was making it painfully obvious to Ludwig, probably already so mixed up that he didn't know up from down, that these looming massacres would be the result of _his_ decisions.

"Which one? Huh? Which one do you want to take out first? Maybe this one. Or this one. What do you think? Have you ever seen a town burn? Ha, it goes up so fast, you wouldn't even believe. You'll see. But, hey, we don't take any prisoners, you know. I don't have time for that. Think about it. Come on, figure it out. You're smart. Think."

Ludwig bowed his head, and squinted his eyes shut. He was shaking.

Shaking, and Toris couldn't help.

Unsuspecting little towns, that just happened to be harboring, probably unknowingly, student rebels, unorganized and underpowered and no match for the military should they ever show up in force. Students, dreaming about overthrowing the iron fist government while they struggled to finish their homework on time. Dumb kids, just like Ludwig.

No match.

Ivan was asking Ludwig to sign their death warrants. A game. Ivan's _favorite_ game. Torture by proxy. It was bad enough to have the threat of harm constantly above your head, but to know that you were doing it to other people, to know that you had sacrificed someone else so that _you_ would be spared, to know that you had given the order that had taken a life...

It was _worse_.

This was Ivan's favorite game. Turning unwitting men into murderers.

Ludwig was not like Ivan, but would do it all the same, because there was no choice. Toris had done it. Ludwig could, too. And hell, Toris hadn't even hesitated, not like Ludwig. He hadn't shaken his head. He had just done it, in a fit of cowardice and bitterness. How could he ever hold it against Ludwig if he did the same now?

Ludwig looked up suddenly, and caught his gaze. Toris could _hear_ him pleading for help.

Help.

That he didn't _want_ to do this, that he wasn't a soldier, that he wasn't a _murderer_ , that this was not who he was, that this was not what he had been meant for, that this was not his fate—

What could he do? It would be better for Ludwig just to get it over with. The first time hurt like hell. The second time stung a bit. The third time was a little easier. And after you had done it so many times...

After a while you just didn't feel anything at all. Just another task. Daily business. In some way or another, be it through direct contact or paperwork or phone-calls, Toris usually wound up hurting someone every damn day. So used to it that he didn't even flinch. Ludwig wouldn't be so upset the next time. It was better to get it over with.

Finally, Toris could only nod his head, trying to say, 'Just do it.'

Ludwig's shoulders slumped and his face fell. Toris hated himself for it. Maybe Ludwig would understand one day that everything Toris had ever done was only for Ludwig's own good. Poor Ludwig, who had been brought up under Edelstein, with the pledge that he would uphold the Geneva Convention and _Habeas Corpus_ and always put human rights before all else.

Ludwig just didn't understand that sometimes people were bad, for no reason.

Ivan's grip upon Ludwig was unyielding, and his smooth voice was near Ludwig's ear. "Impress me, Ludwig. I know you can do it. You can do anything. Just think about it. Don't rush yourself. It's easy. I know you can do it."

Toris shifted, as Ludwig's hands began to tremble. He expected Ludwig to start crying, or maybe even to faint. The first time was almost impossible.

The Geneva Convention? _Habeas Corpus_? Human rights? Just made-up words out here. Ivan did not abide by those.

Toris didn't expect very much, honestly, and Ludwig would probably be unable to complete this awful game, tossing his pen down and burying his face in his hands. He didn't expect much.

Ivan's smile was unshakeable, and he pressed his lips into Ludwig's ear, whispering something that Toris could not make out. Croons of admiration, no doubt.

Ludwig would fold. The first time was the worst.

_Why are you crying about it? It's easy! Come on, it's not hard. Why don't you wanna do it? Burn the whole fuckin' country, why don't you? Why don't you? Take the damn pen and do it. Do to him what he did to you_ —

He shuddered.

But Toris had underestimated Ludwig again.

Pressing his palms into the wood, Ludwig suddenly took a great, deep breath to steady himself, pushing himself forward until he was pressed against the edge of the desk, and it was terrible, and it was horrible, and it would have been unfathomable to an outsider, but Toris could _see_ it. He could see that light that suddenly crossed through Ludwig's dull, misty eyes. Determination. The need to please. Ludwig _wanted_ to impress Ivan. He could see it.

As Ivan continued to whisper things that Toris could neither hear nor even imagine, the real Ludwig fled with a great sigh, and the Ludwig that Ivan was creating suddenly swallowed in what might have been a effort to stifle nausea, and then smiled. Ludwig smiled. Pale and weak and barely there, but a smile nonetheless.

Well, then. How strange. Hadn't expected that much of him.

Ludwig looked up, then, and caught Toris' eye yet again, and this time Toris could see that there was something that almost looked like pleading upon his face, as though he were somehow trying to seek Toris' forgiveness for what he was about to do. As if he were trying to make Toris understand. Understand what? Toris had been the one who had nodded his head. Toris had been the one who had given Ludwig the all-clear.

Maybe, in Ludwig's confused, disjointed, muddled mind, Ludwig was trying to rationalize and justify this horrible deed, and perhaps he was thinking to himself, 'Well, Ivan gave me a name, so I have to live up to it!'

Good-natured, harmless Ludwig was suddenly not so harmless. Not under Ivan's influence.

Toris could only watch as Ludwig clenched the pen in his hand, ignored the cold sweat on his brow, and tried to steady his fingers, hunkering over and studying the map like he was _really_ thinking about it. Like he was really going to make out a path of war.

Toris' brow actually lifted then, and he would have scoffed if Ivan hadn't looked at him again.

Bastard.

Ivan leered at Toris from above Ludwig's shoulder, looking exceedingly satisfied and content and maybe even gleeful, and Toris could hear the eagerness in his voice as he said, breathlessly, "Make me proud."

Proud.

Toris could only push away the pang of envy and focus again on Ludwig.

Toris had done everything for Ivan, but all Ivan talked about was Ludwig. Clenching his fists at his sides, Toris stayed still and silent so that he would not anger Ivan, and stared straight ahead, as Ivan's adored Ludwig brought the pen down to the paper, and began to ask questions.

"Well... Which is the smallest?"

Toris had underestimated Ludwig. He had underestimated the extent of Ivan's control over him. He had thought it would take longer to get inside Ludwig's head. He had even thought that Ludwig would have killed himself before he did something like this. Thought that Ludwig was stronger. More resilient.

Underestimated? No. He had _over_ estimated Ludwig.

_Susceptible to manipulation. Psychologist highly recommended._

He hadn't _thought_ it—he had _hoped_ that it would have taken longer. In a way, in the back of his mind, no matter how hard he had tried to deny it, Toris had always known that Ludwig was going to crack. Sometimes, Ivan's words were just too powerful, especially to someone like Ludwig, who didn't even know who the hell he was. Ludwig had been no match for Ivan. Not a fair fight at all.

Ivan was god.

Ludwig had surrendered. Submitted. Bowed. And he would draw out death for student rebels just so that Ivan would be proud of him. Toris understood. He had done worse things to make Ivan happy. It wasn't Ludwig's fault.

Turning his back on ethicality and morality, because Ivan wanted to be impressed and Ludwig wanted to impress, Ludwig took another deep breath, and stepped into the dark with the scratch of the marker upon the paper.

Toris wondered if he would ever come back out again.

Ivan was twitching in excitement. His favorite game. Ludwig was playing for keeps. Toris wondered if Ludwig had shut himself down and obeyed so quickly because he was afraid that Ivan would take back those damn papers if he failed to impress.

Ludwig and Ivan should never have encountered each other. It had the makings of a perfect storm. Toris could feel it.

Ludwig sat there, and every stroke of the pen across the paper was a painful reminder that Ivan had expected something far more from Ludwig, and Ludwig was acclimating almost too well. How much longer before the real Ludwig was gone completely?

"Do you have anyone on the inside?"

Ludwig was playing much more seriously than Toris ever had. Toris had just pointed and called it a day. But then, maybe Ludwig had more at stake then Toris had. Toris had known who he was back then, for the most part. Ivan could strip Ludwig of his identity if he wanted to, and that must have been a terrifying prospect for Ludwig.

"Ah," Ivan drawled, and seemed to perk up in what could have been eagerness as he leaned forward, pushing Ludwig farther into the desk, "I have two in Odessa."

"Do the groups communicate with each other?"

Ludwig's voice was low and distant. Almost apathetic. Mechanical. Not his own. Ivan, thinking for Ludwig again.

"They must. They keep organizing riots across the border lines. Odessa has radioed the others in Kyiv at least twice while my men have been there."

...ha. What was this, _Espionage 101_?

Suddenly, the urge to salute was back, and maybe this wasn't Ludwig at all. _Ha_! It was just Colonel Müller. Of course. Suddenly so sick that he was almost giddy, Toris shuffled his feet, and tried to wipe the smile from his face as Ivan sent him a quick glance of annoyance.

Nearly giggled for a second there.

Minutes of silence, as the wheels grinded in Ludwig's confused head, and then finally Ludwig fell back, holding his paper in his hands and staring down at it with something that could have been nervousness. When Ivan tried to peer over his shoulder and see it, Ludwig pushed it down and shielded it with his hands, as though suddenly abashed. And Ivan just smiled crookedly, and tried to pry it away with gentle fingers, and Toris resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Barely.

Yeah, this may as well have been a class, alright. Toris suddenly felt like he was surrounded by schoolchildren, at any rate, as Ivan whined, "Let me see!" as he tried to pry the paper from Ludwig's fingers, and Ludwig just look mortified and suddenly there was a flush of red on his pale cheeks.

Like they hadn't just decided the fate of hundreds. Like Ludwig was trying in vain to hide a love note, instead of a paper that had upon it something like war crimes.

Well. That was pretty terrifying.

His giddiness was gone, replaced with a chill.

Finally, Ivan took the paper, and as he scanned it with cool eyes, his smile widened so that his teeth were visible. Those damn canines, poking out as they always did.

"How great!" he finally gushed, and Toris felt a twinge of disappointment as Ludwig's shoulders relaxed in obvious relief.

Toris wasn't surprised. To Ivan, everything that _Ludwig_ did was _great_. Wished, somehow, that Ivan would have laughed, so that Toris could have felt a little better.

"Listen here, Toris," Ivan suddenly said in Russian, and his voice was much less soft and gentle when he was speaking to someone other than Ludwig, "You might learn something."

Toris wanted to say, 'I already know how, thanks. I've done it a million times.'

He would never dare.

Learn something. Ungrateful bastard—Toris had killed so many people that there was no hope in ever counting them. He could have taught the class, and Ivan was pretending that Ludwig had actually come up with something unique. Toris burned towns in his fuckin' sleep, scribbled away and did paperwork while at the same time holding a conversation on the phone, and on both ends Toris killed people.

Ludwig was nothing.

All the same, Toris straightened up at attention, and looked straight ahead, keeping himself impassive as Ludwig squirmed on Ivan's lap, no doubt agitated that Ivan was speaking and he could not understand.

Ivan held the paper before him in one hand, clenching Ludwig inescapably with the other, and Toris didn't dare to even breathe as Ivan began to speak. He didn't look over to meet Ludwig's eyes. He couldn't. Stupid Ludwig.

"Look at this Toris! He wants me to use the informants in Odessa to radio group Kyiv and tell them I'm coming! Ah ha, and while Kyiv is getting ready for war, we'll engage in a little sneak attack up behind group Odessa and group Sofia. And then—this is my favorite part—he _still_ wants to go barreling into Kyiv, even though they'd _know_ we were coming! On the same day. He wants to take them all out on the same day. Look, look, men and tanks divided perfectly."

A pause, and then Ivan set the paper upon the desk, and this time Toris' could not escape his gaze as he stared him down with frightening intensity, and Ludwig was squirming more than ever.

Ivan was almost breathless.

"You see? Isn't he great? Goddamn Germans, ruthless, conniving sons of bitches! I told you, it's in their blood. Always has been, the bastards. His first time, and how well he did it! What's your excuse, Toris? _You_ already knew how to do all this shit. Why can't you come up with anything better than just covering your eyes and putting your finger on the map? Huh?"

Toris could not find his voice, and Ivan's gaze was too unnerving. Toris finally broke attention, and lowered his eyes. Ivan gave a deep scoff, and turned his interest, like he always did, back to Ludwig.

Toris had only done that the first time. Only the first time. Was that all Ivan remembered? Toris had only choked in the beginning. Had become a very efficient executioner since then. Why was that first lapse the only thing Ivan chose to remember?

"See?" Ivan whispered, switching languages with a smoothness that was uncanny, and it was with a lopsided leer that he leaned forward and placed a firm kiss upon Ludwig's cheek, sending Toris another one of those triumphant stares as he did so, "I knew you could do it! You're so smart. See, I told you we were the same. See how easy it was for you? I'll have everything set up by the end of the day. We'll do it your way, alright? You did so well! Easy, right?"

It hadn't been _easy_ , not in any sense of the word, and it was obvious by the terrible shaking of Ludwig's hands upon the desk. Ivan saw it, and his smile never faltered.

"I'm proud of you. Don't let it bother you, Ludwig. Think of them as statistics, not people. And just think, when they're all wiped out, you'll always know that _you_ were the genius behind it."

A strange silence.

Far from comforting, Ivan's words seemed to have struck Ludwig rather hard. Ludwig's pulse resumed its mad dash in his neck, visible even from a distance, and suddenly he bowed his head, and Toris could _swear_ that he was struggling not to burst into tears. Toris knew, then. The real Ludwig was back. And what he had done was tearing him apart.

He hadn't overestimated Ludwig at all.

"I leave for Moscow tomorrow," Ivan said, and with his strong hands he grabbed Ludwig's belt and pulled the both of them upright.

Ludwig just stood there, head bowed and shoulders slumped. Defeated. Toris couldn't help him. It was too late now. What was done was done. There was no taking it back.

...it wouldn't hurt so much the next time. Ludwig would get used to it. It was better to get it over with.

If he could just explain to Ludwig that the next time would be better.

Ivan was still enjoying the rush of control, and suddenly he gave a great gasp, as though he just couldn't contain himself any longer, and was with a breathless voice that he grabbed Ludwig's hand and said, eagerly, "Come with me to Moscow! Come see the troops off with me. Would you like that?"

Ludwig, head still bowed, hesitated. So scared. So numb.

Ivan's hands moved up and fell upon his shoulders, an unassuming act, but it was enough to stir Ludwig from his stupor, and finally, Ludwig nodded his head. Ivan looked triumphant. Excited. Toris couldn't help but wonder the things he whispered to Ludwig when they were alone.

"I've got to make arrangements," Ivan said, gripping Ludwig's shoulders firmly, if not gently, "I'll be back later. We'll leave first thing in the morning. We'll wear the parade uniforms. You'll like those. Toris can show you. He'll help you figure out the uniform. Toris is useful for _that_ , at least. I'll be back soon. I promise."

Ignoring the light jab, Toris kept his eyes on the desk and waited for Ivan to take his leave. He did, finally, but not after clapping Ludwig on the back in playful camaraderie, so hard that Ludwig nearly stumbled, and then without a glance at Toris he was gone.

As soon as the door was shut, everything went still. Toris relaxed. The air was breathable.

For a moment, Toris was content to stand there, and let the dismal atmosphere seep out on its own, because he didn't know what to _say_ to Ludwig.

What could he say?

He didn't yet know how to explain to Ludwig that it was just a part of life. Ludwig had to figure out the world on his own. Toris couldn't hold his hand the whole time.

Toris turned to the door, meaning to leave, but Ludwig suddenly staggered back, coming to a rest against the wall, and after seconds of staring silently at his feet, he sank down to the floor and buried his face in his hands.

Toris froze, and looked back.

Dammit.

That unpleasant feeling was back, and for a moment Toris only stood there, shoulder rising up and down and unsure of what to do as Ludwig huddled on the floor and seemed to be giving every effort not to just collapse or dissolve into tears.

He didn't know how to comfort people, but, hell. Hated that look on Ludwig's face.

Finally, Toris found his feet and came over, crouching down and placing a tentative hand on Ludwig's shoulder, whispering, weakly, "Hey. It's alright."

Hardly comforting, but what else could he do? Wasn't good at any of this.

Ludwig didn't move at first, sitting there against the wall, knees pulled up to his chest and shaking his head behind his folded arms, and Toris rested himself on his knees, as a twinge of guilt hit him. Ludwig had been put under Toris' care. The entire point of that had been to prepare him for _this_. Toris was supposed to get Ludwig ready for war. He hadn't done anything. Hadn't given Ludwig a warning. Hadn't given him the time of day. Hadn't prepared him.

He had left Ludwig to fend for himself.

Ludwig finally spoke, his voice muffled for his arms as he moaned, miserably, "Oh, what did I do? What did I do? Toris, tell me what I did. What did I do?"

His voice was deep, rough and scratchy. Ludwig's voice. The real Ludwig's voice. Not that soft, smooth, velvety rumble that he spoke in when he was not himself.

It was just Ludwig.

"Don't think about it too much, Ludwig," was Toris' lame attempt at comfort, "It won't really matter, in the end. If you think about it a lot... It's just easier to pretend, you know? Just forget it. Forget it."

Suddenly, Ludwig looked up at him, through bleary eyes, and whispered, strangely, "Don't look, right?"

A hesitation, and then he nodded, and said, "Yeah. That's right."

Sure. Whatever.

"Come on. Get up. Let's go."

When Toris tried to pull him upright, Ludwig resisted, and then he looked up at Toris and said, "You know! I knew someone once who used to fight with the students!"

And then Ludwig burst into tears.

Alarmed and feeling more terrible than he had in years, Toris fell back down and rested his hand on Ludwig's shoulder, awkward as he was, and it _hurt_ more than anything to realize that Ludwig had said, 'I knew _someone'_. Not 'my brother'. Maybe Ludwig _really_ couldn't remember exactly who it was he had known. It was so easy to forget.

The real Ludwig was slowly dissipating.

Ludwig came and went, in and out of the fog of Ivan's presence, sometimes himself and sometimes someone else. Both of them were harmless and gentle, for now, but one of them was aware of himself and one of them only waited for Ivan. One of them knew right from wrong and one of them knew only the authority of Ivan. One of them could think for himself. The other could not. One of them was alert. The other was dreamy. One of them spoke with a rough voice. The other spoke softly and serenely.

One was still. The other was stirring.

Toris liked this Ludwig. Ludwig, who bowed to his conscience and could still feel remorse. This Ludwig, who was burying his face in his shirt and _regretting_. Liked this Ludwig, because he still _felt_. Toris couldn't remember that, couldn't remember what it was like to care about people, and didn't want Ludwig to lose that, because through Ludwig was the only time Toris could ever get a glimpse of it.

Toris didn't _want_ Ludwig to go to Moscow with Ivan. He didn't want Ludwig to be forced to oversee troops. To get a taste for it. When Ludwig came back from Moscow, when Ludwig came back from this trip, he wouldn't be Ludwig anymore. Ludwig wouldn't come back. He wouldn't be the same. It would be someone _else_. He might not ever see this Ludwig again.

Toris sat there with Ludwig, silent and still, until Ludwig finally gathered himself, and when he helped Ludwig up to his feet and steadied him, Toris suddenly wanted to cry, too, because when Ludwig met his eyes, all of that emotion was gone again.

So swiftly the winds had shifted.

The mists were back. Ludwig stood there for a moment, watching Toris with a frightening serenity, and then he tilted his head to the side, his voice silvery as he whispered, dreamily, "Are you alright, Toris?"

Toris could only nod.

Someone else.

It wasn't fair.

Once, he had been someone else, too.


	29. Follow the Leader

**Chapter 29**

**Follow the Leader**

It was like a ghost town.

No people. Snow and ice all over.

The pale light of the moon overhead, and a little speck of dull pink on the horizon of the soon-to-rise sun in the East. The air was bitterly cold, the wind nearly threatening to knock him right off his feet. Everything was frozen and coated with crystals.

No clouds. Stars.

Yellow lights, in a neat little row, glowing out against the darkness like beacons. The smell of coal.

The train station looked like something from a ghost town, and there was only one train, just two cars, sitting there on the tracks, glistening in the moonlight, plumes of white smoke gushing out from within the bowels of its furnace, and there was only one person that appeared to be working here. A man, standing back in a booth, bundled in a coat and an ushanka, and from the way he continued to stifle his yawns, it was obvious that he was only here because he had been dragged out of bed to get this train rolling for just one man.

But then, Ludwig knew, no one would dare refuse to do something that Ivan asked of them, even if it was to get up at four in the morning in sub-zero temperatures to direct a train that would have only two passengers.

Ludwig wasn't sure exactly where they were. Not in Mirny.

Ivan had shaken him awake at an ungodly hour and loaded him up in the car like baggage, and he had been too dazed and bleary to even bother asking where they were going. It didn't really matter, in the end. Two days later, here they were. No one else really seemed to be here, aside from the conductor tinkering around up front, and, for now, they stood there at the loading gate, in the biting air, waiting for the man to come around and get everything situated.

The tracks started here. Nothing beyond. Had never actually seen the end of a railroad line before. It was somehow fascinating, knowing that he had truly come to the very ends of the earth, that he had wound up living somewhere that even a train couldn't reach.

The door suddenly swung open and the conductor stood before them, greeting them with a stiff salute, and even though his fingers were tingling with cold Ludwig reached up before he even realized it and returned the gesture. He could see Ivan's smile.

They stepped onto the train, sleepy Ludwig frozen and numb, and the journey began.

Moscow. Dreaded it.

As the door shut behind them and the train gave a great, creaking lurch as it started forward, its wheels screeching and grinding on the frozen tracks, he looked around, Ivan's heavy arm around his shoulders, and took in his surroundings with a bleary mind.

It was not what he had expected. Not the average train car.

Obviously a private room, commissioned for officers, elegant and high-class, meant for long-distance traveling. Instead of the hard wooden benches, they sat upon a sofa, coated with a woven fabric that felt similar to velvet. The panel beneath suggested a metal bed frame within that could be pulled out. A little table in the corner, bolted to the floor. Chairs around it. Curtains on the windows. Cabinets overhead. An icebox near the table, no doubt full of food. A tiny electric stove. Before the sofa, astoundingly, a fireplace.

A little hotel room, more than a train car.

The shadows shifted. The high-pitched shrieking of the great wheels on the tracks was dull through the windows.

Ivan, tucked into his side, looked this way and that as though he might have been trying to stay awake, and then finally attempted conversation.

"The Trans-Siberian railway," came the sudden voice in his ear, and when he looked over, Ivan was smiling at him, not quite as awake and alert as he usually was, eyes heavy and lidded.

Dumbly, he said only, "Huh?" and Ivan inclined his head towards the window.

"This track," he explained. "It's the Trans-Siberian railway. Well, actually, this is really the Baikal-Amur, but we'll hook into the Trans-Siberian in about two days. This whole railroad—it's made everything so much easier. We can get to Moscow all the way from here safely. No driving, no little planes. I hate those little planes. They can get knocked around so much in the wind. You know, I lost some good men that way a few years back. I never use them anymore. Toris likes them, who knows why. He even knows how to fly them, took classes and everything. I didn't even make him do that. Guess he has a death-wish. I like trains much better."

Ludwig rested again Ivan and closed his eyes, and tried to imagine Toris piloting a plane.

For some reason, he just started laughing, and Ivan was quiet.

They fell asleep shortly after, and Ludwig didn't dream. Hadn't been dreaming much at all lately, it seemed. Couldn't remember anything at all in the morning, sometimes even who he was.

The train rocked gently back and forth, the warmth of Ivan pleasant against his skin. At some point Ivan had gotten up and started the fireplace, and Ludwig came to consciousness just long enough to ask, "How long will it take to get there?"

"Ten days."

That long? No wonder Toris liked the planes. Could at least get there in a few hours.

Ivan saw his look, and snorted.

"Use it to rest up. There's plenty of food. I need to put some weight on you before we get there. You're too skinny."

Ivan sat back down, pulled him in, and Ludwig immediately started drifting off again. A movement within his coat started him from sleep a while later, as the sun began to rise, and when he looked up in a bleary daze, he saw that it was just Ivan, sticking his hand down within his pocket as though searching for something.

What was he looking for?

Seconds later, Ivan finally retrieved his hand from within the depths of Ludwig's pocket, and there was a gleam of gold in the light. It caught his eye, and he looked up to see Ivan studying a small rock, or maybe it was a gem, head tilted and eyes scrutinizing. Had that been in his pocket?

Finally, Ivan asked, as the glowing rock sent waves of rippling color upon the dim walls of the car, "What's this?"

For a moment, Ludwig couldn't even remember. Ivan sent him a cool look and a smile, waiting patiently.

Squinting his eyes, he concentrated, attempting to cast a light on the fog.

_Please be careful, Ludwig._

It came to him, slowly and blurrily.

The day before. After that long, dark stretch that he couldn't really remember, but was vaguely aware had happened.

A map.

Ivan had left. The walk through the hall. Toris stood him up and held him steady in front of the mirror, and the uniform had been pulled on before he had really even realized it. Ludwig had shaken his head to clear it and focused his thoughts because this uniform had been different. Slate-grey, of a finer thread and glossier sheen. Toris had been speaking to him, explaining little things in a strange, low voice as he wound belts here and there and connected clasps and pinned on medals, stating that this was a parade uniform, for special occasions, not the field uniform in olive that he had worn before.

Toris had looked disheartened. Ludwig had been enthralled.

Seeing himself in the mirror, looking like _that_ —important and high-ranking and groomed—he hadn't been able to suppress the smile. Shoes of black glass and leather belts polished, hat crisp and immaculate, and for the first time in a long, long time, he had almost felt _proud_ of himself. Like he was really _someone_.

A nobody like him, dressed up like that.

Maybe Toris had seen it, and that was why he had suddenly taken Ludwig's hands up within his own and forced something cool and sleek inside of his palms, saying urgently, 'Here, look, I got this for you. For Christmas, really, but I was too mad to give to you, but—just take it, alright? It's for good luck! It'll help keep you safe.'

Ludwig hadn't really looked at it then, not really, too busy gawking at himself in the mirror, and had merely slipped it in his pocket with an absent hand. This was it. He didn't remember putting it in his coat. Toris must have fished it out of the uniform when he had taken it off and relocated it, predicting his absent mind.

Ivan held it up now, and Ludwig saw it himself for the first time. So, this little rock was Toris' great gift to him. A glossy little piece of amber.

"Toris gave it to me," Ludwig finally said, and Ivan gave a deep snort.

"Did he?" A silence, and he watched as Ivan held the piece of amber within his gloved palm, tossing it up and down absently. Finally, he clenched the little rock within a closed fist and asked, "For what?"

_Keep it with you, alright?_

"Good luck. He said it would protect me."

Even as he said it, the words felt ridiculous on his tongue.

As if a rock could protect him better than Ivan could. Toris was oddly superstitious for such a dangerous man.

"Ah," Ivan murmured, and then he leaned his head back into the seat and laughed. "Well! Well then, in that case, you should keep a good eye on it." And with that, Ivan tilted his hand and dropped the little gem back into his pocket, smiling quite cheerily. "I want you lucky. Maybe Toris believes such things enough to make them true."

He patted the lining of the pocket airily, and then returned his arm around Ludwig's shoulders.

"I didn't mean to wake you. Go back to sleep."

And, with the lolling train and the warmth of the fire and of Ivan, he did.

He slept for several days straight, waking up only when Ivan shook him and forced him to eat. Needed the rest, and desperately so. Hadn't rested in so long, had been dragged this way and that endlessly for months. Hadn't gotten a chance to ever just _rest_.

Sleep was beautiful.

Days.

He woke up one afternoon, and his head actually didn't hurt. Couldn't remember the last time his head hadn't hurt.

Ivan noticed his improvement, and seemed quite pleased for it.

Must have been going crazy with boredom, though, because his foot was always tapping. Sometimes Ludwig came to consciousness to see Ivan pacing around the car on an endless loop. Other times, Ivan was studying his German book aloud. Frequently, Ivan was off at the end of the car, doing push-ups, sweat dripping from his forehead.

Ludwig just slept.

Ivan tried his best to keep him engaged and out of boredom's way when Ludwig was actually awake, chatting here and there about random things and sometimes involving Ludwig in light exercises alongside him, but activities on a moving train were few and far between. Sometimes, Ivan's hands wandered, as though he had thought of _one_ thing to do, but in the end, he always pulled away and contented himself with reconfirming that Ludwig was still a bit too skinny and that he needed to catch up on a little more sleep.

Sleep wasn't coming upon him as frequently, now that he had caught up. Harder and harder to sleep all day, and was growing bored for it.

Ludwig was becoming restless.

Snow.

Snow.

More snow. Everywhere. Forests and icy lakes and every so often, a little town far off in the distance, frozen and still.

And then, after the sixth day, the endless forests began to thin. Civilization. Little houses here and there. Getting closer and closer.

Days passed.

Towns turned into cities.

And then, one morning, at long last, they drew near.

"We're almost there," Ivan suddenly said, his voice starting Ludwig from his lethargy, "Just another hour or so."

Finally. What a long journey. His relief was palpable, perhaps; Ivan snorted.

Had dreaded Moscow so much, but after ten days on a train suddenly it didn't seem so bad. Sure was nervous, though. The capital of the Soviet Union. Kinda terrifying. The first time.

Leaning in, Ivan reached out and snatched a handful of his messy, uncombed hair, and said, "You should go ahead and get dressed. I want you looking presentable when we step off. A lot of nosy people in Moscow, you know."

Blearily, Ludwig muttered, "I thought you hated the people in Moscow?"

Ivan, always quick and thoroughly unconcerned, merely responded, "All the more reason for you to look nice."

Fair enough. Sleepy and cold, Ludwig pulled himself to his feet. Ivan went over to the corner of the car, where the luggage sat, and began to rummage. It didn't take long for him to produce the slate uniform with the sheen that Toris had stuffed him into, wrapped in plastic and carefully folded.

"Here," Ivan said, as he pushed the clothes gently into Ludwig's arms. "Go ahead and change." In a mimic of prior occasions, he smiled and whirled around, clasping his arms behind his back and adding, "I won't look! Promise."

Grabbing the fabric in his hands, it was with motions that felt very mechanical that Ludwig stepped back towards the door of the bathroom, and unfolded the uniform.

Obviously, it was no great task to pull on the pants and the shirts, and fix the buttons, but the other additions were a little harder. Clasps, belts, medals. He tried to loop the belts and straps as Toris had shown him, across the breast and around the back, but that had been over a week ago, and lately his memory had been operating at the level of a few days, max.

Like a goldfish.

Oh well. No worries. Ivan, obviously peeking despite his declaration that he would not, saw his fumbling and quickly came to his aid, with sure hands and eager fingers and a bright smile. Always had Ivan to fall back on when Toris failed him.

He straightened his back and stared obediently ahead as Ivan fixed his tie, tugged the straps in place and pinned on the medals, and when everything was in its proper place, Ivan reached out to brush down his shoulders and place the cap neatly upon his head.

With that, he wasn't Ludwig anymore. Now he was Colonel Müller.

In appearance rather than spirit, at least, because even though he liked the way the uniform looked, he still didn't really _feel_ much like a colonel. Lack of confidence. Well, no worries about that either. Ivan had confidence enough to float the entire Soviet Union.

"There," Ivan suddenly said, as he straightened medals upon Ludwig's breast and gave him one last look over, "That's perfect! Don't touch it."

Ludwig obeyed, perhaps a little too literally (refusing to give in and reach up to merely scratch an itch beneath his collar), and stood as rigid as a board, keeping mindful of his arms as Ivan turned around to prim and preen himself.

The anxiety was mounting.

First time in Moscow, and in such a flashy uniform. Didn't know if he could really live up to it.

Then, fretting, the time seemed to fly, and he barely realized that an hour or so had passed, as he stood there tapping his foot and too afraid to sit or move for fear he would jostle his uniform out of its pristine condition, until he looked up, and saw it.

Moscow.

First houses, and then increasingly congested streets, and then tall concrete buildings that loomed on the skyline, more people than he could have ever imagined, and he stared out of the window as Ivan smoothed back his hair and picked lint from his clothing with dutiful fingers.

The first lurching of the train as it slowed down turned his anxiety into something more like panic.

Colonel. Too much pressure.

Wheels grinding the tracks. The train was stopping.

Ludwig could see the curling of Ivan's lip and the prim sneer of disdain as his brow fell lower. Clear enough how unhappy he was to be here, and Ludwig knew that he would be treading very, very carefully while here so as not to fall through the ice. Ivan hated Moscow. Step lightly. Keep quiet. Obey without hesitation. And, above all, keep a careful eye on Ivan's moods, and act accordingly.

Suddenly, he wasn't so excited about being in a vast, explore-able city.

That increasingly deep crease in between Ivan's eyebrows was ominous.

With one final, drawn-out squeal, the train fell still, and Ivan lifted up his shoulders, and then his chin.

"Well!" he began, as Ludwig fidgeted in anxiety, "Let's get this over with."

The door was pulled open from outside, cold air blasting in as the attendant saluted from below, and with a deep inhale of ill-temper, Ivan took the first step down, and Ludwig stayed hot on heels, if only for fear of being lost in the thick and unyielding crowd.

And immediately, Ludwig understood why Ivan hated Moscow.

The station was crammed full of people. Noisy and crowded and drab and dreary, the grey sky threatening to burst above, and it seemed a world apart from the quiet, isolated, icy town that they'd come from. Every step was like shoving through a thick forest. People just wouldn't _move_. Everybody shoved and pushed and cast foul looks. The city itself didn't seem particularly friendly. Just cold, damp, and miserable.

At least Siberia was _quiet_.

Grey all around.

Ahead of him, Ivan was using his tall stature and broad shoulders for all they were worth, stretching his back and walking almost on his toes to make himself as imposing as possible. Ha. As if Ivan needed to try hard for _that_.

Most of the people, upon seeing Ivan's glossy uniform and serious face, quickly leapt to the side and out of his path, and if they hadn't, Ludwig had a feeling that they would have gotten trampled on. Ivan didn't even slow down, and made no effort to go around anyone. Barged right on through like a bull.

Ludwig found a small comfort in the fact that no one was sending them second looks. A quick glance, the sight of the uniforms, and the men sped off silently and the old women covered their faces with their shawls and bowed their heads.

Every so often, Ivan would take his eyes off his path and glance over his shoulder to make sure that Ludwig hadn't been swept away in the tide of the crowd. Ludwig tried to stay close, even if Ivan's furious pace was hard to match.

He didn't dare open his mouth and speak to Ivan, not only to avoid irritating him but also to avoid uttering German in the midst of all these bustling Russians, for fear of being eyed and cursed at. He didn't even want to think of the repercussions if some poor soul had uttered something under their breath in earshot of Ivan. A disaster best left avoided.

The pushed their way out of the station and into the streets, where the sound of passing cars and honking taxis and people shouting grated his ears mercilessly, and Ivan tilted his head to the side, looking for a moment as he were seconds away from coming up with a good reason to turn on his heel and flee back into the quiet of the train.

Ivan fled from nothing, and in the end, he heaved a sigh through his nose, and trudged forward. Ludwig followed, without a word.

As they passed a crosswalk and Ivan kept his gaze straight ahead and his face impassive, a slight inconvenience; when they reached the other side of the street, two street-vendors, pushing their cart along, were so startled as a general approached that one of them stumbled and tipped the cart clean over.

Vegetables tumbled out in a pool directly into their path, Ivan stopped in his tracks, and Ludwig fell completely still, feeling his heart already racing.

A short silence.

And then, as the vendors stared over their shoulders at Ivan in obvious horror, Ivan raised his hand in the air, furrowed his brow, and started shouting.

A scramble to gather the goods. Even though Ludwig could not understand the words that Ivan was saying, the tone of voice and look on his face made the message very, very clear :

'Get all this shit out of my way.'

They did, and parted quickly, without a word. Probably there was an 'or else' left unsaid at the end. Ivan only said things once. A repeat was unnecessary.

Path clear, Ivan lowered his hand and shook his head, spat something under his breath, and walked on.

Catastrophe averted. A bit of luck.

He could understand as well why Toris had seemed so twitchy and alarmed about this whole journey. No doubt it was a little frightening to accompany Ivan to the place that he hated the most and walk the fine line of patience and sanity. Without thinking, Ludwig reached down and patted his pockets. Rock, safe. So far, so good.

As long as Ivan's gun stayed firmly in its holster, everything should be alright.

A dull gleam ahead drew up his eyes, and he saw a car parked in the street, its black paint as shined and glossed as Ivan's uniform, and he didn't really have to guess; he knew this was their ride. The driver leaping out to yank open the door in a very stiff manner only made it all the more obvious, but Ludwig was far too preoccupied with watching the rather persistent twitching of Ivan's eye.

When they were both nestled inside and the door was shut, the sounds of the street muffled a little, Ivan sank back into the seat, crossed his arms above his chest, and muttered, irritably, "Shitty place, isn't it?"

Ludwig, shifting a bit in his seat, only gave a short, "Hm."

Ivan carried on quite easily without his input, as it turned out, and added, "I only come here when I have to, understand, I hate it here so much. Ever seen anything so ugly? I always said that I think they should make Vilnius the capital. I'd gladly go to Vilnius. Anywhere but here."

Ivan turned his eyes up, and for a moment, his irritated grimace faded into a strange half-smile.

"Well," he finally amended, when Ludwig stayed silent, "It's a little better with you here."

Ludwig smiled, as much as he could for the unease.

Moscow was unsettling, and so were the dangers it held. Unpredictability.

Ludwig sat there, hands wringing subconsciously in his lap as Ivan turned lazy eyes to the window and watched the congested streets fly by with a curled lip, and the uniform was starting to itch a little. He didn't raise his hand to scratch at it, and kept his neck painfully straight so as not to tilt his hat.

Thankfully, the drive to wherever they were going was not exceedingly long, and Ivan's foot had barely began to tap by the time they reached their destination.

The car pulled to a stop.

Ivan leapt out quickly, before the driver could even step out, and this time the agitation was gone, replaced by eagerness and maybe even a little glee. Not necessarily a good thing.

It didn't take Ludwig long to realize, as Ivan extended a hand in courtesy to pull him out, that they were on the edge of the city, the tall buildings looming out far in the distance. Here, there was a vast, muddy field, and a high wall of thick barbed wire. Guard towers. The gleam of sniper scopes as they caught the pale sun in their sweeping observations.

A Red Army encampment.

If he hadn't been petrified into complete stillness, Ludwig might have shuddered. Ivan, with a wide smile and a high chin, started walking towards the great, guarded gate, and Ludwig could only follow.

Before they neared, Ivan slowed his pace, and whispered, "Beside me, not behind. You're a colonel, not a foot soldier."

A spark of adrenaline lit him up, and Ludwig forced his shined shoes through the mud to try and match Ivan's long strides, falling in beside of him with a little effort. His heart was pounding so fiercely he was afraid he'd fall over right in the dirt. The guards, still at a distance, saluted, and the gate began to creak open. Looked more like the gates of hell.

Ivan, looking straight ahead and without leaning in, uttered quiet advice as they approached.

"Head up."

Ludwig straightened his back, trying to call back the memories of how Toris had instructed him to conduct himself so long ago.

_Pretend you've got a board stuck down your pants._

Right.

It had been a little easier in the comfort of the house, when a slip-up only earned him a quick slap from Toris. A slip-up here might earn him a bullet in the head.

He walked as closely to Ivan as he dared, and tried to stifle his nausea. Ivan was smiling away.

"Put a hand behind your back, like me. So they think you don't give a shit."

Glancing over, Ludwig observed Ivan's posture, the carefree and superior gait and air of authority, and tried to emulate. But even when he held up his chin and placed a hand at the small of his back and loosened his shoulders, he still felt vulnerable, and a little ridiculous.

Imposter.

"And don't smile."

Well, _that_ one wasn't a problem.

They approached the gate, he had one last chance to pull on the mask of belonging and a stance of mightier-than-thou, hiding his tremor the whole while, and then they stood before entrance. A well-dressed soldier of some sort came forward, and broke into a great beam, reaching out and clapping Ivan on the shoulders with heavy hands. Words were exchanged, greetings and pleasantries.

Ludwig kept himself straight and tall, brow low and lips pursed, and could only pray that he was not letting Ivan down.

Ivan directed the man over, and as Ludwig's heart thudded all over again, he still reacted quick enough to reach out and take the offered hand with the right while saluting with the left. He gave a smile that he tried to make as snide and condescending as possible and made sure the handshake was firm.

Ivan was beaming, though, so that was good.

Ludwig only nodded his head as the man spoke, and kept his mouth shut, although he was fairly certain that Ivan had introduced him as a colonel from the GDR, maybe just popping in for an observational visit, or maybe a transfer. The soldier finally released his hand and then turned around, waving his hands around emphatically as he blabbered away in Russian, apparently acting as a tour guide, and the second the eyes were off him, Ludwig could not repress the great exhale and the swallow of nervousness.

Ivan reached out quickly, and slapped his back.

"Very good."

The words, although quick and quiet, were enough to boost his confidence, and Ludwig felt himself calming down, just a little. He might be able to make it through this yet.

As they walked behind the gesturing soldier, Ivan glanced over at him, and sent him a leer.

"You look very handsome in that uniform, did I tell you?"

He managed a low, weak, "Thank you."

Because compliments, in Ivan's world, should always be acknowledged politely. And very quickly.

As they walked, he felt a little more at ease, and his shoulders were steadily loosening without him really realizing it.

This wasn't so bad! Ha. Maybe he'd been overreacting a little. Feeding off of Toris' fear. Toris worried too much. That was all. This wasn't all that hard, not really, and as long as he stayed beside of Ivan and acted like he knew everything, then it wasn't so bad. The soldiers that they passed fell into place and gave rigid salutes like they did every commanding officer, and life within the encampment carried on as it normally did.

No one knew he wasn't who he pretended to be.

He relaxed, and let himself look around to gather a sense of his surroundings.

Behind the impenetrable fortress of steel beams and barbed wire and guard dogs out in the front, imposing and safe from prying eyes, there was a vast clearing that stretched back probably for a kilometer or so, although view of it was obscured by small buildings and tents that jutted up against the horizon.

A faint whirring of machinery beyond.

The soldier leading them forward continued to speak aloud to Ivan, who nodded his head at intervals, and Ludwig could only try to imagine what exactly was in store for him within this camp.

He didn't need to wonder for long.

They rounded the corner of a heavily-plated building, and the field beyond became visible. And immediately, Ludwig froze still like a deer, overwhelmed. His foot hung in midair.

Awed.

Because behind that building and standing in that field were men; hundreds of them. The Soviet Army stood before him, rows and rows of them, standing at perfect attention and rifles perched neatly upon their shoulders, their uniforms immaculate and faces completely serious.

Impressing the general.

Ivan did not seem particularly impressed, however, and barely spared the soldiers a glance before turning his attention to the man who had led him there, as they saluted and then parted ways. Now it was just him and Ivan, standing before the army.

The _army_.

His first coherent thought was a simple, 'oh shit.'

Scary as hell, that was for sure, and he had never seen anything like it, not ever. Nothing like this, as they didn't even twitch, as far back as the eye could see, olive uniforms a dull gleam against the fog and mud and grey skies, casting shadows back as tall as the trees, and ready to make war at a mere snap of Ivan's fingers.

Unsurprisingly, Ivan only observed them once with a critical eye, raised his brow, and then turned back to Ludwig with an airy twirl. To Ivan, this was nothing. Boring. Ivan had stood in front of the army for nearly his entire life, waking up in the morning to sounds of guns and machinery and seeing trained killers in uniform practicing in the yard.

Just business as usual.

Ludwig jumped in alarm when Ivan suddenly stepped forward and leaned in next to him, close to his ear and whispering, "Impressive, aren't they? This is only a small platoon. This is the one going to Odessa." A hand on his shoulder, as Ivan pointed to the distance. "See the tanks back there? I'll let you go see them in a minute."

Craning up his neck, Ludwig looked over, and saw the iron vehicles sitting behind the men, and he realized now what that mechanical whirring had been; atop the tank, a great gun swung back and forth, scoping and focusing. A shiver of thrill. He'd seen tanks in books and on the television, and he knew damn well the logistics and the fact that better tanks made better war, but he'd never seen one up close and personal.

Surreal.

His heart was thudding all over again, and it was with stiff shoulders and a painfully straight spine that he lifted his chin and sucked in a great breath to steady himself, arms still tucked behind his back. Tried to look as bored as Ivan did.

Ivan only smiled down at him, keen to his efforts.

"Nervous?"

He was, of course he was, but Ludwig shook his head anyway, and tried to scoff. He would not admit faults in front of Ivan, when Ivan didn't expect him to have any. Ivan demanded perfection. He tangled his hands into the fabric of his uniform so as to steady them, and tried to keep his face as impassive as he could.

Ivan knew damn well what he was feeling, Ivan _always_ knew, but he humored him anyway and turned his eyes back to the waiting men, and Ludwig barely kept from jumping in alarm when Ivan began to speak.

But not to him.

Voice rising over the background noises and the engines, Ivan addressed the statuesque soldiers, pacing slowly back and forth as he waved an emphatic hand in the air, voice steady and sure as he gave a speech in Russian, and Ludwig had no doubt that he was giving very specific instructions on how this operation was to be conducted.

No prisoners. No survivors. Ivan's voice held no tremor. No remorse. No call for sympathy.

Shaking his head in a quick twitch to clear it, Ludwig tried to push the squirm of unease away, and focus on something else. What happened in Odessa was not for him to say. If Ivan was telling them to raze a town to the ground or shoot fleeing men in the back, then there wasn't anything he could do about it. And besides, it wasn't like he was going to _see_ it.

He wouldn't see it.

Toris had taught him up in _that_ room that not looking meant it wasn't real. Even if it was happening right in front of him. If he turned his head, and averted his eyes, then all was well. Nothing out of the ordinary. Just Ivan's work.

Ivan's work. This was Ivan's work. This army.

Fascinating.

Ivan, it seemed, was saying a _lot_ ; he was still pacing back and forth before the still soldiers, voice rising and falling in various pitches and tones, stressing important phrases and muttering others, and Ludwig was quite content to listen to the smooth words he didn't understand until Ivan suddenly looked over his shoulder and met his eyes.

A rush of panic. Ivan had introduced him, perhaps.

A thought that surely wasn't far off, for when Ivan suddenly raised a casual hand in the air, as though swatting a fly, the soldiers loosened up and fell at ease, and turned to look at Ludwig. Low chatter. Curious gazes. Ivan was watching him expectantly.

Keep cool.

The only thing Ludwig could think of to do was to lift his chin and narrow his eyes, sending the staring soldiers the same look of annoyance and iciness that he had sent to _him_ when he'd been falling over drunk on the floor.

... _him_?

That damn name just wouldn't come to him, no matter how hard he tried to drag it up from the depths. Oh well. That wasn't important anyhow, not right now, not when Ivan had come back over to his side, standing at rigid attention beside of him as Ludwig tried to deter the men from staring at him.

He must have been doing a good job of holding composure.

"Look at you!" Ivan breathed at his side, bristling. "I think this is where you were meant to be. See, how well things are working out for us? You're everything I ever looked for. How well you fit in here. You're a natural. What a general you would make. Just the way you stand. I can tell."

Words of praise. What? Just for this? Just for standing?

Ludwig dared himself to break stillness, and looked over. His heart started up its mad dash. Ivan was beaming at him, chest puffed and shoulders braced; like he had brought the best of the best to the show. Was Ivan _proud_ of him? What a thought!

"Come on," Ivan said, inclining his head, and it was obvious that it took every shred of restraint within him to keep from reaching out and snatching Ludwig's hand. The staring soldiers were no doubt a good deterrent. "Let's go down and get you up on a tank! You'll like it. Have you ever held a rocket launcher?"

A—a _what_?

Ivan's excitement was channeled through his high, thin voice as he sped along, so eager that he almost left Ludwig completely behind with his long strides. His own eagerness, however, prevented him from lagging.

He couldn't remember moving this quickly in all the time he'd been out here (how long _had_ he been out here?—ah, fuck it, who cared?), and it was a little dizzying to hustle along through parting soldiers, some of whom leapt back from Ivan so fervently that they nearly toppled backward. None of them spoke as they passed.

But even through his exhilaration, Ludwig did not miss the looks that some of the soldiers sent him, once Ivan had safely passed. Crinkled noses and visible canines; grimaces of distaste. Sneers of hatred. That old word of 'GDR' could still cause such strife. He wasn't welcome here.

And Ludwig couldn't really reconcile _those_ looks with Ivan's constant declarations that this was exactly where he belonged.

One or the other. It couldn't be _both_.

If this had been only months earlier, he would have been able to form a very rational essay in his head, explaining in very merciless detail the contradictions of everything Ivan had ever said, to pinpoint every lie and every deliberately misleading word, to observe and recognize every little inconsistency, and in doing so be able to convince himself that this was _not_ where he belonged—

Tank.

All thought fled. The last of the soldiers parted, and there before him, tracks sinking into the mud, was a tank.

A tank.

Well! Well...

Months ago, maybe. Right now was right now, and there was a tank standing right in front of him, Ivan was standing beside of him, and he couldn't even remember what he'd eaten on the train the day before, let alone piece together a report on Ivan's sincerity.

Without realizing it, his heels stuck back in the soft, cold earth, and he stopped dead. Ivan stopped too, and whirled around, hands tucked again behind his back and absolutely beaming. The sun may as well have come out, for that look. Suddenly, the cold air and damp mud and unfriendly soldiers didn't really bother him all that much.

He didn't realize that Ivan was close enough to the tank to actually touch it until he lifted his hand, and then threw an arm back, gloved palm patting the freezing steel cheerily.

"Neat, huh? Come here. Don't you want to get on top of it?"

He opened his mouth, couldn't find his voice, and merely stood still, as much like a deer as he had ever accused Toris of being. He could have gladly stood there for quite a while longer, if the soldiers hadn't been staring at him, but it was _not_ a good thing for a colonel of the Soviet Army, GDR or no, to be gawking up at a tank like a little kid seeing Neuschwanstein castle for the first time.

So, he stifled the thrill, shut his open mouth, squared up his shoulders, tucked his arms behind his back, lifted up his chin, and only huffed, as primly as he could, "Hm!"

If he could speak Russian, he might have turned to the soldiers and said, 'Well! German tanks are better.'

Ivan, smiling in a rather wolfish manner, turned to his men and muttered something lowly in Russian. Ludwig could only hope it was something along the lines of, 'Colonel Müller is not impressed.'

Even though he _was_.

At Ivan's words, there was a sudden bustle; the soldiers who weren't staring at him like he had just crawled out of a sewer came forward, in slow, careful movements, and gathered around him. He realized with a lurch of anxiety that Ivan had something more like, 'Give him a tour.' Oh, damn. Well, like so much else out here, better just to go along with it.

The soldiers blabbered away, not seeming to care that he couldn't understand them, and some of them appeared a little more eager than others, gawking at him as he had gawked at the tank. A German where he shouldn't be. It was a little comforting to know that some of them saw this as an interesting event that called for curiosity and observation, rather than annoyance and aggression. Not all Russians, it seemed, automatically hated Germans just because they were expected to.

...maybe he'd been a little prejudiced himself. Alright. Maybe a _lot_. Ha. Hadn't he always fed off of the hatred of others and saw them all as merely 'Reds', to be feared and mistrustful of? Better dead than Red—who had said that?

Look at him now! Standing amongst soldiers of the Soviet Army, a supposed newcomer from the GDR. A German with Russians. Enemies. Ivan didn't really seem to notice the problem. So he shouldn't, either. Any doubts from earlier were quickly cast aside as one of the soldiers reached out with a loud voice and placed a heavy hand on Ludwig's shoulder (only to wrench it quickly back as though he were going to be reprimanded), and he felt himself calming once more.

Could be worse.

Before he knew it, he was being led to the tank, eager, rapid voices floating through his head like white noise. The feel of freezing steel beneath his thin gloves. Climbing up.

Suddenly the entire camp was visible, the great forest behind spreading on for eternity, and he wobbled a little as he tried to gather up his shoddy balance and nod to the pointing soldiers at the same time. It only took a second after he had found his footing atop the tank for him to break into a wide smile that showed his teeth, even as the cold wind howled.

Oh, _damn_! Was _this_ a feeling! Excitement. When was the last he'd felt _that_?

Ivan just stood there below and watched him, hands tucked in his pockets and looking for all the world like he'd just gotten a brand new puppy and was watching it run around the room; a little adoration, a little bemusement, a little possessiveness, and a little glee.

For once, Ludwig couldn't really think of a reason to feel _down_. Not while he was standing up there on top of the tank, not as the men hovered around him with smiles and eager hands, thinking he was their superior and wanting to impress, not as he came into contact with things he had no business being near, and certainly not when the men opened up the hatch, and pointed downward.

An invitation to leap inside.

He would have, immediately, as enthralled as he was, but even now Ludwig found himself freezing still and looking down at Ivan in a silent search for permission. Ivan only smiled, and gave an almost imperceptible twitch of his head. Approval. Ludwig didn't waste any time. Exhilaration was leading his actions now.

Grabbing the ladder, his hands steady and strong, he slid down, and even though there was a language barrier, exaggerated motions and big grins and laughter were effective ways to communicate, and Ludwig only nodded his head every time one of them patted his arm and showed him something new. He didn't understand the machine, not by any means, but he sure as hell pretended he did, and just to be able to touch and feel the inside of a tank, civilian that he really was, was more than anything he could have ever really anticipated.

Suddenly, Ludwig realized he was engaging with the soldiers, speaking to them in German as they spoke to him in Russian, asking them questions about this and that even though he knew they didn't understand him. He was too excited to be quiet, too high on adrenaline.

He hadn't known it would be this, well...

This _amazing_ , for lack of a better word.

Machinery had always been something of a fascination, from the sidelines, so to be able to be inside of a war-machine was something akin to Christmas. He didn't necessarily condone _using_ it, not really, but there was no denying it was impressive. The cannon on top was the icing on the cake. Grabbing the control and actually making it move back and forth, the whirring of the machine music to his ears, was almost as good as seeing those papers had been.

By the time Ludwig climbed out, head poking back out into the cold, arms folded over and staring out over the field ( _his_ field), he was smiling, and he knew. He liked all of this. Maybe he had always been cut out for the army but had never been given a chance to find out.

Felt like he fit in here.

Ludwig glanced down, smile still wide on his face, and saw Ivan.

Calm.

The excitement dulled, the adrenaline slowed, as Ivan smiled up at him, and as they just stared at each other silently, Ludwig felt tranquil and happy. Felt happy, really happy, and it was beautiful. Hoped that Ivan could see in Ludwig's expression how grateful he was, for everything.

Ivan inclined his head, and Ludwig sucked in a breath and hauled himself back onto the top of the tank, waiting rather impatiently for the next demonstration.

It didn't take long.

He was led here and there, shown this and that, and the whole time Ivan just stood back and watched over him, making no effort to command or intervene as the soldiers shoved weapon after Soviet weapon into his hands, no doubt thinking that they were convincing Ludwig that Russian guns were better than German guns.

Let them think what they wanted, as long as they kept on handing him shit. Could have stood here all day, and damn! There was that fuckin' rocket launcher Ivan had talked about, holy hell—

The hours zoomed by, and by the time the sun was up high at noon, he was alert and awake and feeling more involved in the world than he had in months.

Everything felt oddly perfect.

No problems, smooth sailing, good moods, and none of it had been tumultuous or frightening enough to warrant Toris' dumb little rock. As long as he did what Ivan wanted, everything was fine. Just fine. Toris worried too much. Nothing to fear out here.

He could have carried on with this until nightfall, being in the middle of everything and feeling a little sense of control, but finally Ivan stepped forward, and twitched his head.

A call to return. Ludwig obeyed.

Making a beeline for Ivan, he fell into his side and tucked his arms behind his back in a mimic of the tall general, straightening his shoulders and lifting his chin as the soldiers fell back into rank and formation.

Time to go, no doubt.

Ivan muttered, under his breath, "Have fun? They'll be talking about this for a while."

He couldn't help the puffing of his chest. Let them talk. Sure thing. He liked the look and feel of this newfound position, and it was a rush to think that others would be talking about him long after he was gone.

He was somebody here.

Hell, maybe this was where he had always belonged all along; on the battlefield.

Had Ivan been able to sense something within him that he himself had never even known was there? Perhaps so, and that was why he had brought him here in the first place when he could have easily gone on alone. The great tanks sitting there, the guns upon them swinging to and fro as the men practiced, the smell of machinery and gunpowder and the feel of the metal in his hands, and best of all Ivan's unshakeable smile.

Home.

He focused his attention on his hands; still steady.

He didn't jump when Ivan suddenly started speaking again, not even a twitch, and stood there with a smile, considering that this was possibly the most exciting day of his life. Thrills of excitement and the feeling of belonging.

Ivan finished quickly this time, and smiled over at him.

A quiet whisper.

"Anything you'd like to say to them, colonel?"

Say to them? Maybe he was feeling a little confident here, but he wasn't ready for _that_. What would he say? The thought alone was mortifying; he'd fumble, for sure, and come off sounding like an idiot to those few soldiers that might have understood a little German.

Risking being a little bit of a disappointment, Ludwig finally shook his head, and said, easily, "No, general."

Ivan's smile never wavered, and he only raised his brow. "Well, then. Let's go."

Ivan was patient with him, and let him work up to it at his own pace.

Without another word, Ivan turned on his heel, trudging through the mud back towards the great gate at the front of the field, and Ludwig followed him. The soldiers were left behind. As soon as the fence was reached and the gate began to creak open, Ludwig reached into his pocket, and made a decision. Grabbing up Toris' gift, he brought it out into the open, and with a flick of his wrist tossed it out into the mud and grass.

He didn't need it. Simple as that.

Ivan was all the protection he needed, and when they were back inside the glossed car, it was all he could do to keep his composure and sit perfectly still. Had the driver been blocked from view, he might have collapsed back into the seat and grabbed Ivan's hand, or at the very least tossed a clenched fist of enthusiasm into the air like one of his old friends used to. Couldn't really seem to think of his name at the moment, but who cared?

He was floating, and Ivan seemed even more comfortable than usual, arms behind his head and staring lazily out of the window as the car rolled along. Ludwig quickly realized that they were returning to Moscow.

So. The troops were about to roll out and right over Odessa, and so what was there really left for them to do here? If he'd been a little braver, he would have asked to go on a tour. Sightseeing would be welcome after so many weeks in the desolation of the diamond town.

Minutes of silence.

Finally, Ludwig gathered up the courage to ask, quietly, "Where are we going?"

"To the hotel," came the simple response, and when Ludwig looked over his shoulder at Ivan, the raised brow of knowing was apparent. "What?" Ivan continued, airily, "You thought I would bring you all the way out here and then not let you look around? Ha! For ten days on the train, we should at least stay two weeks, right?"

A moment of immobility, and then Ludwig found his voice, and said, as the smile spread across his face, "Right."

Long minutes later, the car stopped. He could hear Ivan's belated sigh, and then the click of the door. Quick movements, and his own door was held open, as Ivan looked back and forth over the streets with a grimace.

"Come on," Ivan said, as he began to amble off into the passing pedestrians, "It's this way."

As he walked at Ivan's side, people parted and dodged and some of them even went all the way to the other side of the street to avoid stepping in their path. None of these people would have ever gotten out of his way if he'd been on his own. He'd have just been jostled and pushed and shoved like everyone else. No respect. No second glances. No care.

Things were different now. He was somebody now.

Colonel Müller.

To think he'd ever roamed the streets back in _that place_ and let people push him around for so long. That wasn't a problem out here. The gun strapped to his waist, locked in its holster, was as big a confidence booster as Ivan's presence.

Ludwig was floating. Walking on the clouds Ivan had placed beneath his feet.

Ivan suddenly pointed up to a building, damp stone shining in the pale sun that struggled in through the clouds, and said, "That's it!" Certainly in a much better state than the crumbling buildings on either side of it, obviously well-tended and cleaned on a daily basis. Safe looking, and elegant. "Pretty, right? Best hotel in Moscow! Modeled after the French. Well, I suppose that's a good thing! In Moscow, sometimes buildings blow up just because."

And from the look on Ivan's face, that was not a joke. Right.

The gleaming columns that framed the door were visible.

Before they could approach, an interruption.

" _General_!" came a sudden voice from the side, and Ludwig turned to look over his shoulder as a man came striding towards Ivan from the other side of the street, and god, he looked _so_ familiar! It struck Ludwig instantly that he knew the man coming towards them. From where? Who was he? No matter how hard he tried, Ludwig realized that he couldn't think. Blank after blank.

Reaching their side, the man came to an abrupt halt before Ivan, and saluted with a strange smile, clicking his boots together and sending Ludwig a quick glance as he did so. Ivan's tense face of agitation melted into one of ease and fondness, and the smile that spread over his face was a good sign.

Ludwig relaxed, but tried to keep up the act of superiority by appearing untouchable and aloof. The familiar man was in uniform too, but of a rank he did not recognize. He could only pray that it was a lower rank than colonel, otherwise he might have looked a fool for not showing the same respect the officer had shown Ivan.

A conversation in Russian, and Ivan broke the formality to reach out and slap the man's arm with a laugh, but it became obvious that the man only had eyes for Ludwig, looking over at him in very frequent intervals with scrutiny and curiosity. Ludwig just stood there silently, awkwardly, and tried to put a name and place to the face.

He _knew_ this man. The frustration of not being able to really remember was nagging him. Rough-looking and smelling of cigars even from a distance, looking both confident and somehow defeated. Scruffy and short and stocky. Right there on the top of his tongue, but he just couldn't pin it.

Ivan blabbered away, his voice quick and smooth and silvery in his native language, jostling the officer every minute or so in what was clearly excitement. Like a little kid. The officer only smiled back, and joined in the conversation. But he still glanced over at Ludwig, as if trying to communicate with only eye contact. Not understanding and feeling a little agitated, Ludwig finally averted his eyes off into the distance, and stood as still as a statue.

Ivan's meeting. Not his.

The short conversation finally ended, and a farewell was given with an enthusiastic hug. The officer had to stand up on the tips of his toes just to reach Ivan, who towered above.

Goodbye.

Before he left, the man stopped short and turned back to Ludwig, muttering something under his breath as he saluted him, and Ludwig saluted back in that automatic response that had become a habit. Footsteps thudding down the street. Ivan waved in a final moment of exuberance, and then fell back into the collected air of authority that Ludwig was used to. The officer was gone, lost in the crowd. Taking all familiarity with him.

He didn't really care enough to ask Ivan about it, either. Maybe Ivan thought he could remember on his own, for he suddenly leaned down and said, "He's here to lead the troops to Kiev. I gave him that operation. He's never let me down before."

All Ludwig responded with was a simple, "Hm!" If all else fails, just play along.

Ivan led him at last into the hotel.

Nothing could bring Ludwig down, not even fuzzy memories. Not propped up like he was upon Ivan's shoulders.

Colonel.

Memories. What good were they, really? Never there when he needed them nowadays. It was better to forget so much, and people could be forgotten as easily as dreams, as if they had never been. He had forgotten that man, and was forgetting everyone else with every day that passed.

Only Ivan mattered in the moment. This uniform. The two most important things in his life now.

The most powerful country in the world at his fingertips, and the man who could give it to him.

He followed Ivan, everywhere.


	30. Dead On Arrival

**Chapter 30**

**Dead On Arrival**

The hotel was nice. Fancy.

Thrilled and pumped with adrenaline and struggling to keep a straight face at the giddiness that threatened to come, Ludwig let his composure slide only when they stepped into the elevator, saving face and dignity if only to uphold Ivan's honor and imposing air. As soon as the elevator doors shut, Ludwig exhaled a great lungful of air and broke into a breathless smile, and without even thinking he reached out and took Ivan's hand within his own.

Ivan, leaping upon the opportunity, whirled around and pushed Ludwig back against the elevator wall, quickly and harshly kissing him, his hands gripping Ludwig's upper arms so forcefully that bruises were only inevitable. For all of his coolness, it was obvious that Ivan was just as excited as he was.

Plinky piano music wafted inside, almost humorously pale and bland in comparison to the exceedingly heated way Ivan was shoving his tongue down his throat.

Seconds of Ivan's hands raising from his arms up to cup his neck and practically lift him up off his feet, and then the elevator lurched up, and then fell still.

A 'ding'.

When the door opened, they were standing perfectly straight and composed, not a hair out of place or an item of clothing disheveled. Strolling out, all business. Maybe his cheeks were a little red. Even so, he held up his head and kept his shoulders squared when they stepped through the halls, doing his best to keep stoic as Ivan's brushing up against him threatened to make him crack.

It wasn't really a great surprise that the when they rounded a corner, there was only one door. Another one of those high-end luxury hotels, where there were only two or three rooms per floor.

Well, nothing less than Ivan deserved.

The click of the key in the lock was eerily loud in the quiet, empty hall, and when they stepped inside, the room was cold and the air was a bit stale. The flick of the light, and everything was visible. The room wasn't as big as he had envisioned. Two beds, a small living room and a smaller kitchen, not a house, but far bigger than the average hotel room. A cozy place, in comparison to the grey, gritty city that lay on the outside. The carpet and curtains were gold.

As soon as the door was shut behind them, Ludwig's legs finally gave out, and he fell down into the closest seat, at the kitchen table, and buried in his face in his hands. Ivan only snorted, and began to rummage. His heart was still hammering.

Jittery.

"That was fun, wasn't it?" Ivan called back, and for a moment, Ludwig was too stunned to answer.

Splitting open his fingers to stare up at the ceiling, he heaved a great sigh, and tried to compose words to describe it. In the end, he found none, and stayed still, leaning back into his chair and tapping his boot on the floor.

Eloquence had never really been his strong point.

"Are you cold?"

"A little."

The heater was turned on.

"Hungry?" Ivan asked, as he abandoned the dresser and moved into the kitchen.

"Not really."

He might not have been hungry, and he might not have been able to the find the words to explain how he was feeling, but there was one thing that was present on his mind :

"Are we going to go back out?" he asked, a bit hopefully, but Ivan only shook his head as he poked through the cabinets.

"Not tonight. I think we should celebrate, yeah?"

"Celebrate what?"

Ivan looked back at him, and the leer was obvious.

"How well you did, of course! I never thought you'd look so good out there. I should have known you'd be able to do it right off. Ha! I think you were born for the military, like me. Men like us, it's where we belong. Owning the world."

Ludwig opened his mouth, but Ivan came over to the table and sat down with a loud thud before he could speak, and it didn't really surprise Ludwig when he set the bottle of vodka upon the table, along with two glasses. After ten days dry on the train, Ivan was surely going through a little withdrawal, and now didn't seem like a bad time for a drink.

Ludwig lowered his arms and scooted his chair forward in a wordless acceptance, eager to keep the feeling of belonging going strong.

Ivan, smiling away, uncapped the bottle and started to pour. And he didn't stop, not when afternoon turned to evening, or when evening turned to night. They spent hours drinking with each other, kept sober only by the late lunch they tried to make together with laughter. The first time they had been completely alone with each other like this, without Ludwig half-dead or Ivan going crazy.

One of his favorite times in recent memory.

It was getting quite late by the time Ludwig could say for sure that they were finally drunk.

The hapless vodka bottle had been replaced earlier by a second. Poor thing hadn't stood a chance. Not against Ivan. Ludwig was getting better. Six glasses down. With every one of them that was consumed, Ivan's hand became a little more errant, stretching across the table to fall atop his own as they chatted quietly. Ivan did most of the talking, and he usually just nodded his head and smiled.

Every time Ludwig looked up, Ivan seemed to be a little closer. Maybe that was just his mind playing tricks.

Ivan's boot bumped into his own.

Maybe not.

"So," Ivan began, cheeks red and voice beginning to slur as the vodka started to take over, "Tell me! Didn't you like the tank?"

Swaying a little, Ludwig managed to perk up, and say, too eagerly, "Yeah! I did. I didn't think it would be so...so—"

"Powerful?"

He nodded, although that hadn't exactly been the word he had been searching for, but it was close enough. Ivan only smiled, visible canines glinting in the dim light of the kitchen.

"You looked good up there on top of it. Did you see how they were so careful? Not to make you angry? They were afraid of you. Didn't it feel good?"

He looked up at Ivan through bleary eyes, and tilted his head.

Good?

"That's control," Ivan whispered, suddenly so close that Ludwig could feel his breath hot on his cheek. "That's respect. It felt good, didn't it? To stand up there before them and have them salute you like that. Afraid of you. It felt good, didn't it?"

Why deny it? It _had_ felt good. God, it had felt _great_.

He met Ivan's eyes, and said, voice rough with alcohol, "Yeah. It did. I liked it."

He was somebody here, made so by Ivan, and he had suddenly gone from being completely invisible to someone that people jumped out of the way to avoid on the street.

A Red Army soldier.

Even though it was a carefully crafted lie of Ivan's, it didn't matter. _They_ hadn't known he wasn't really a colonel, not with that uniform and the meticulous training of Toris and the supreme authority of Ivan. They hadn't known anything was out of place, and they had respected him. Feared him. No one had ever been afraid of him before, no one, hadn't ever even noticed him at all.

Nothing Gilbert had ever done had given him a rush like that—

Gilbert?

Gilbert.

A bolt of lightning.

Hey! That was his name! Gilbert. He'd almost forgotten. How could he have forgotten? How stupid. Had his memory gotten that bad? Forgetting really was easy. Maybe he actually was a goldfish. Ivan's pet.

He couldn't help himself; he raised his hand up to his mouth, but it didn't get there quick enough to stifle his breathless, cracking laughter. Even through his mounting intoxication, some part of his mind was still able to realize, past the fog, that he didn't recognize his own voice. Was that _his_ laugh? Sounded different. A strange, high-pitched giggle.

Then again, he'd never really laughed all that much. Maybe he just didn't know what his own laugh had ever really sounded like.

"What?" Ivan finally asked, huskily, when he couldn't really seem to stifle the titters, and Ludwig only shook his head.

Dumb Gilbert. Probably passed out in a street somewhere right now, drunk and high and grabbing people's pant-legs as they passed. Gilbert would never be able to wear a uniform like this and have the presence of mind to behave so properly in front of an army. Gilbert would never be able to hold his composure and make Ivan proud. Gilbert was useless, always had been. Couldn't do anything right.

Good riddance.

His head hurt again. First time in days.

Ivan snorted, rested his chin in his palm, and said, huskily, "I love it when you smile. You're so pretty. I'm glad you came out here with me."

...what had he been thinking again?

He lost his train of thought, elated and caught under Ivan's slanted smile, and once more that man vanished in the fog. Forgot all about him again, as Ivan's eyes ran over his face.

Ludwig leaned back in his chair, legs splayed and breathing through his mouth, and realized how drunk he was actually getting.

Spinning.

Ivan reached out, and clapped his rough hand heavily over Ludwig's upon the table, saying, "Tomorrow, I might take you out to see the cathedral. The Red Square. Would you like that?"

"Sure," Ludwig drawled, surprised that he could still speak at all, and Ivan snorted.

"You're not really afraid to do anything, are you? Is there anything I could ask that would make you say 'no'?"

Warm and flustered, Ludwig thought for a second, and then tipsily settled on, "If you asked me if I wanted to leave. I'd say no."

It was true.

The look that Ivan sent him then was worth anything in the world. No one had ever looked at him like that. Everything he had ever imagined that love would be.

The minutes ticked on by.

The vodka started to have trouble going down, stopping halfway down his throat and threatening to come back up. Ivan was still putting them back like water. Ludwig tried to keep up.

For a moment, his arm fell lax upon the table, the shot glass gripped weakly in his hand as he hung his head and squinted his eyes. He was ready to call it quits when he heard a giggle, and looked up, blearily.

"What?" Ivan grunted, as he slammed his glass on the table fervently, pale eyes locking onto Ludwig with something that could have been amusement, "Is that all you've got, kid?"

Kid? Ivan had never called him that.

Despite the doubling of his vision and the burning warmth in his veins, he knew a challenge when he heard one, and even though he _knew_ that there was no chance he could ever hope to out-drink Ivan—not Ivan, who could devour vodka by the bottle and still stand up—Ludwig furrowed his brow, steadied his hand, and took up the glass nonetheless.

A challenge. Ivan's challenge. Couldn't back down.

Ivan was watching him. He sought to impress. The vodka burned his throat, and it was threateningly close to one too many, and for a moment, Ludwig placed his hand above his mouth to make sure that it would go down.

Shit.

It finally went, and he coughed a bit, and Ivan recapped the bottle and set it aside, saying, primly, "I think that's enough for you. You're a bit of a lightweight."

Another challenge, but Ludwig was too close to vomiting then to even bother. Anyway, Ivan had already pulled himself up to his feet, and staggered back behind Ludwig's chair, casting a shadow above as he rested very warm, very heavy hands upon Ludwig's shoulders.

A tingle of exhilaration. Hot breath on his ear and a nose nuzzling the back of his neck.

"So tell me, Ludwig—"

Lyudovik.

"—how did it feel when they were all looking at you out there?"

No time to think; Ivan's fingers splayed outward, pressing into his throat with gentle pressure as his thumbs dug into the muscles of his shoulder blades.

He could only answer, honestly, "I liked it."

"Did you! I guessed so. I saw the look on your face when you were up there! I'm glad. You'll do so well out here, I can tell."

Oh. Ivan had a way of making him feel like the most important person in the entire goddamn world.

And yet...

"Did you see the way some of them looked at me when they saw I was German?" Ludwig grumbled, despite himself.

With the burn of alcohol and the burn of excitement came the burn of aggression. And some of the looks from before that had been unable to dampen his mood were suddenly gnawing at him.

Most of them had been respectfully impassive. Some of them had been eager to interact. Fewer still had been _excited_. Others...

Looks like _that_ burned him. Hated those looks—made him think, for some awful reason, of a woman in a blue dress.

Couldn't shake it.

"Most of them really don't want me here, do they? We're not supposed to be around each other. Germans and Russians. Ha. They can barely even look at me. They won't ever think that I'm just one of them, no matter what I'm dressed like."

A strange, unnerving silence.

He could practically hear the wheels grinding in Ivan's head. And when wheels grinded in Ivan's head? The result was not necessarily safe.

His damn mouth.

"I take care of you, don't I?" came the low, rough whisper in his ear, and Ivan gave his shoulders a firm shake that was an odd mixture of massage and throttling. "Don't I? You do everything I tell you to. And I'm telling you now, don't _ever_ let them forget who you are. You're up above all of them, because I _say_ you are. They can't touch you. Don't let them forget it. Don't just stand there and keep quiet. If they give you a look you don't like, put them in place. Trust me, you don't need to speak Russian to do that."

Ivan's fingers dug into the muscles of his shoulders, in a painful and yet oddly comforting vice.

"Once, a long time ago, when I was still a major, this sergeant out of Moscow—some son of one of my father's friends—went around the ranks telling all of the troops under my command that I'd never make general, not ever, because my mental evaluation advised much caution."

A quiet giggle from above. Ludwig shuddered.

"He told them all I was crazy! Just like my father. And a madman would never make it up to general, not someone like _me_. He told them all. All of my comrades. My superiors. My friends. And when I walked around them the next week they all stared at me, whispering to each other. I could hear them! But I took care of it."

Frozen and feeling a shudder of thrill and fear, Ludwig asked, weakly, "How?"

Ivan's fingers began to massage his shoulders in a slow, languid, sensual pace that was at frightening odds with his quick, breathy voice and high tone.

Insanity.

"I brought him out in the yard and shot him! Just like that. It was easy enough to brand him a traitor. Toss a few papers under his bunk and buy off a few willing, ah, what's the word—witnesses. Easy, right? Ha! I shot to protect the security of the motherland. Perfectly legal. And after that, no one whispered anymore."

Ivan's mouth was suddenly against his ear.

"Don't ever let them talk. I tell you what to do. You're above everyone else. You only listen to me. Understand? Only me. If you hear one of them talking, if one of them looks at you like that, don't worry about _why_. Just shoot them. They'll know I don't carry any fools or cowards on my arm."

A silence, as Ivan's words sank into his muddled, intoxicated mind.

Just shoot them. He couldn't let them use his heritage against him, for the sake of Ivan's reputation. Ivan's reputation was above all else, and it was his duty, as Ivan's chosen companion, to uphold that reputation. No matter what needed to be done.

A German was only a German until he shot you.

Bang, bang.

Then he was your superior.

With that thought, he couldn't help but giggle again. Helplessly.

Oh, those poor sons of bitches that found themselves in the path of Ivan's storm. Could he be part of it? Maybe a typhoon to Ivan's hurricane. The wind to go with the lightning. Become a whirlwind because Ivan had stirred him to.

Ivan put him into this uniform. He was who Ivan told him he was. It was as simple as that. If Ivan told him to shoot, he would shoot. He and Ivan stood above the others. Their own world and their own rules. Together.

Him and Ivan. A team. Always together.

Would people wonder about them?

_General Braginsky and Colonel Müller are just alike! Always together!_

_I hear they've formed a new non-aggression pact in the barracks, if you know what I mean._

His giggles turned into hysterical laughter. He couldn't even breathe for his sniggering. Maybe he had drank too much. Far too much.

He was _someone_ when he was with Ivan.

Ivan snorted at his tittering and wheezing, and added, as an afterthought, "Start with the feet first. Every time they mess up, just aim a little higher. Trust me, they don't ever get above the knees. Then they'll be your best friend."

Best friend? He had already had one, once. Couldn't remember his face now.

No matter. He had Ivan. That was all he needed.

"Don't worry. You'll get the hang of it before long, as smart as you are."

Ivan's hands kneaded his shoulders firmly, and Ludwig could barely keep his head upright as the alcohol and something else ran through his veins, and everything started to slow down. Ivan's fingers were dragging up and down the sides of his neck.

Start with the feet.

His stomach squirmed, and suddenly Ivan was leaning down and breathing in his ear, "Are you still awake?"

He raised his head up and tossed it back against the top of the chair to prove that he was, indeed, still awake, and Ivan stared down at him with alarmingly scorching eyes. The unnerving air of ruthlessness had gone. Only the sloppy grin of drunkenness remained.

Loved that crazy man.

"You're so drunk!" Ivan observed, quite happily, and Ludwig opened his mouth to retort, but found himself immediately silent when Ivan's hands grabbed his neck, firmly, not hard enough to hurt or cut off air, but hard enough to slow blood flow; an act of dominance, maybe a gentle reminder of who was in charge here.

As if he could forget?

Ivan leaned down, and his husky voice was persuasive as he said, eagerly, "So drunk. You should come to bed." And that didn't seem like such a bad idea, until Ivan added, lowly, "With me."

With Ivan's hands still gripping gently his neck and the alcohol in his veins, it seemed like a good idea.

He was still on a power-trip. Felt invincible.

"With _you_?" he managed to rumble, as Ivan leaned down dangerously close, and he could not help but smile at how red Ivan's cheeks were, and how unkempt his hair.

Ivan was attractive when flustered and aggressive.

"With me," Ivan confirmed, now so close that he could feel Ivan's warm breath on his eyelashes.

Then, as the squirm in his stomach turned into an ache when Ivan's strong fingers fell from his neck down to his upper arms in a vice grip, it seemed like a _great_ idea. He had already done things today that he had never once imagined he would do, so why not extend the list? The warmth running through him was pleasant, and the slight slur in Ivan's voice was charming as he fell heavily against his back and said, "Come on. Can you, ah, walk, you think?"

Another subtle challenge.

"I can walk!" he said, defensively, and pulled himself to his feet as Ivan's strong hands kept that iron grip on his arms. And that was for the best, because his words betrayed him, and he staggered so terribly that Ivan was the only thing that kept him from crashing down onto the table.

"Didn't say you couldn't," came the teasing response.

Alright. Maybe he needed a little help.

Ivan scoffed and grumbled in Russian, and dragged him upright, and he clung to Ivan's shirt as he swam through the sea of intoxication. "I've got you," Ivan breathed, heavily, as he tried to pull Ludwig eagerly along, and Ludwig did not resist, staggering on unsteady feet.

Ivan must have decided that the bed was just too damn far away, and stopped halfway through the room, throwing Ludwig up against the wall so hard that his head spun and his chest ached.

"Close enough," Ivan grunted, and Ludwig could not help but agree, as Ivan's heaviness pressed him back into the wall and the pain in his back lit a fire in his veins.

Ivan fell against him and ran rough hands below his shirt, muttering words in Russian that he wished he could understand. He should have studied harder.

Pressed against the wall, woozy and dizzy and far too warm, Ludwig could only grab handfuls of Ivan's shirt to steady himself as Ivan suddenly assaulted his neck.

And then suddenly, from nowhere, there was something going off in his head; that voice of reason again, goddamn thing, and it was almost more of an annoyance than a help, as it told him to shove Ivan away before he got in too far over his head. Before he got himself into another mess.

Why did it show up at the worst possible time?

The urge to suddenly squirm away. Fear. Anxiety.

But, as his bleary eyes stared out over Ivan's shoulder, the closet door loomed in the distance, and the last time he had broken away...

What was even the point of resisting anymore? What good would it do? It only made things worse. Ivan was dangerous, but he wasn't afraid of danger. Ivan was violent, but so was Gilbert, and _he_ could be violent too.

He wasn't a child.

The pleasant warmth in his chest and stomach won out, in the end, and the little voice was successfully stifled. Who needed it? Why couldn't _he_ do something risky for once? He no longer needed that voice of reason.

This realization came not a second too soon, as Ivan suddenly grabbed his tie and ripped it off, hectically unbuttoned his collar, and then leaned down and sank his teeth into Ludwig's shoulder hard enough to make him bite his lip to stifle a cry.

He'd gone too far. He wouldn't struggle. If anything happened, it was because he _wanted_ to. Not because he _had_ to. Ivan hadn't ever hurt him.

He finally shut down the voice, and threw wobbly arms around Ivan's neck as he struggled to keep balance. Ivan was murmuring away. Russian. The language of passion.

He _wanted_ to. He would have done anything to keep Ivan looking at him like that.

Heat. Hands fumbled out and somehow grabbed the cord of the lamp.

Darkness.

Ivan's hands were suddenly tangled up in the loop of his belt.

Ludwig had just gathered the courage to grab Ivan's face—

And then the fucking phone rang.

For a moment, Ludwig almost didn't realize what that annoying, shrill shrieking was, and quite honestly, he didn't much _care_ ; what mattered was that Ivan's warm hands had fallen tragically still.

It must have been an act of extreme bravery and extreme _idiocy_ to call General Braginsky in the middle of the night in a hotel room in Moscow. A suicide mission, no doubt. The curling of Ivan's lip and the hiss of annoyance all but said it, and the warm hands abandoned his belt as Ivan pulled away, leaving Ludwig to totter helplessly for balance as Ivan stalked towards the phone. Better have been _good_. Otherwise...

A rough, infuriated, " _Tebe pizdets_ —"

Reaching out, Ludwig grabbed a hold of the dresser, and steadied himself as Ivan plopped down onto the bed hard enough to make the springs squeak. Muttering in Russian. Suddenly, the whispered words weren't so arousing. Quite the opposite, in fact. This sound was _dangerous_. Like the hissing of a stick of dynamite just waiting to go off.

Even in the dim light from the moon outside, Ludwig could see it. A horrible passing of darkness through Ivan's eyes, and Ludwig felt that icy dread mingling with the heat when Ivan gripped the phone so hard that it creaked, and he fell still.

The closet door was suddenly far more visible, even in the darkness. Couldn't stop glancing at it, breathing through his mouth as panic stirred.

Pauses and lapses of silence, and then Ivan speaking, and then more silence, and then a click. Dial tone.

The lamp came back on.

And the look on Ivan's face was terrifying. That old calamity.

Every minute his alertness and senses were dulling as he fell into outright drunkenness, but Ludwig was still so startled that he gasped and jumped when Ivan suddenly picked up the entire phone unit and pitched it into the wall with a shriek.

Broken plastic sat on the gold carpet.

Ivan was pacing now.

Ludwig couldn't move. Didn't dare—in these moments, a breath or footstep could cause a catastrophe. Better to wait it out, and let Ivan figure out exactly how far he would let his anger go. Oh, why did these stupid things always have to happen when times with Ivan were at their best? Now there was only peril.

His wobbly feet betrayed him, and Ludwig swayed so far to the left that he lost his balance and staggered straight over onto the floor. Ivan looked down at him over his shoulder, with that tilted head of contemplation.

Ludwig sat there where he fell, and didn't try to move, fingers digging into the carpet and feeling ill. Fuckin' closet was just waiting back there in the shadows.

Finally, Ivan moved. Heavy steps, and then a hand wrenched itself in his shirt, and he was hauled to his feet. The dread was overwhelming.

But he wasn't chucked into the closet.

Instead, Ivan held him steady, both hands grabbing his shirt, and then he asked, "Do you feel sick?"

He did, but not because of the alcohol, and so he answered, "No."

"Good. Come on."

Ivan's hand left his shirt and gripped his hand in a vice, and he could feel himself being pulled along. The heat from Ivan's hand had become blazing. Maybe from anger.

He stumbled along at Ivan's side.

The door. He remembered cold air.

The events between the hotel and the next destination were blurry at best, completely forgotten at worst, as the alcohol suppressed his memory and senses.

All that was really certain was that somehow, he wound up inside another building. He couldn't say what it was. A room. Maybe a different hotel. Maybe a house. A large bedroom, with a king bed in the center and a closet door off to the side. A table with a phone.

Curtains.

When Ludwig saw his reflection in front of a mirror, he barely recognized himself. The pristine uniform was disheveled and half-unbuttoned, messy and damp, and his hair was plastered to his scalp with melted snow. He was white as a ghost, save for his cheeks, which were flushed a deep red with intoxication and cold.

Passing blurs.

When he gathered himself again, he heard voices, and after a second of struggling he managed to scope the room and pinpoint the source. Ivan was talking to someone.

Voices faded in and out. Lights danced. Where _was_ he? His head was swimming. The sounds around him were garbled and distant, like he was pressing his ear into a conch and listening to the ocean. He had to close his eyes and furrow his brow and tilt his head just to gather himself. Deep breaths. Steady.

When he opened his eyes, his double-vision steadied a bit and he could see the man that Ivan was speaking to.

It was the same officer from the street. The stir of agitation was undeniable. He'd been interrupted from a very personal moment and thrust into possible danger just so this jerk could finish up the conversation he'd started back on the street?

With the vodka running the show, Ludwig opened his mouth, and very nearly cried, 'What do you want, you idiot? Don't you know what time it is?'

But the man beat him to the punch, and before Ludwig's voice came out, another interrupted.

"Ah. Colonel Müller. Have you been alright?"

The shock was enough to hold his tongue.

Who _was_ this man? What did he _want_? Ludwig fell back a step, squinting his eyes through the haze in his head as he tried to place the face and voice. He seemed so familiar. Think.

Ivan stood back, and stayed silent.

He tried to focus. Cigar. Ushanka. The gritty voice. That voice—

_Fashisty._

It struck him suddenly like a train, and he realized with a horrible lurch of something that almost felt like _horror_ who this man was. Pavlov. That was his name. Major Pavlov, the man that had extended his hand in kindness and tried to make him feel less awkward and helpless when he had found himself caught up in the tide of Ivan's great military ball.

The only one who hadn't looked at him like he was an unwelcome guest.

The whooshing in his head started to die down, as intoxication gave way to the adrenaline of fright and a gnawing feeling of dread. Ivan just stood there, and the passing of shadows across his face was alarming.

The air was thick. Pavlov kept a fair distance from Ivan, his cigar clenched firmly in his hand and shifting his weight back and forth in a very anxious manner. Something didn't _feel_ right.

When Ivan started speaking, his voice was low and strange, a barely audible murmur. Something wrong; Ivan and Pavlov just crooned away, and yet they kept their distance and their stances very tense, and every so often Ivan's fingers twitched down towards the gun in his belt. Pavlov didn't move, a silent appearance of resignation on his face.

They looked at odds. Sniping gently from afar. There was that awful feeling of a pending disaster. Like the calm winds that blew right before a tornado formed.

He didn't understand what was going _on_. He did not understand the darkness upon Ivan's face. Hadn't they been so friendly with each other earlier in the day? Hadn't Ivan professed that he trusted this man? What had been said over the phone?

He wanted to raise his voice and ask Ivan if they could just _go_ , but he couldn't move. His arms felt like they weighed a ton. _Oh_ , he wanted to _go_. He didn't want to know what was going to happen.

Pavlov, looking over, saw him glancing back and forth between them, and maybe his eyes were wide with alarm or maybe he was shaking, or maybe Pavlov just needed to talk to _someone_ , for he caught Ludwig's gaze and said, simply, "I called it off."

Ludwig stood still, hardly daring to breathe let alone move as Ivan took steps towards the side, settling in close beside of Ludwig as if keeping guard.

What?

"Huh?"

"I called it off," Pavlov repeated, his harsh, raspy voice low as he held his cigar firmly within his hand, "Your raid, Colonel. I called it off. I decided against sending my men into a waiting ambush, although I will not deny that I admire your determination. But, ah— I'm tired of killing students, and children. I'm tired of tanks running over old women's houses. I wanted to teach my soldiers to act differently. I didn't want to do this anymore."

His raid.

_His_ raid.

That was right! That long stretch of darkness—those dark moments that he couldn't really place. That was what had happened then. He could feel the marker between his fingers.

At his side, Ivan scoffed.

The thoughts started coming in through the mists. Beyond the massacre of students, beyond the casualties of children, beyond the destruction of old houses, one thing struck him above all else :

It was _his_ fault. It was his fault that Pavlov was standing before Ivan now, staring straight at the veil and on the line of life and death.

His fault.

He should have only chosen one town. Just one. Not all three. He had tried too hard to impress. It had been his decision. If he hadn't have made that decision, if it had just been one group he had singled out, then someone else would have led the soldiers, someone lower and unimportant, and Ivan would never have called in this man that he had trusted. None of this would have happened.

Ivan muttered, lowly, "You won't have to worry about it anymore."

Pavlov only smiled.

Wait. This could be fixed.

"I-I can think of something else," Ludwig was quick to supply, when he saw that horrible passing of shadow through Ivan's eyes again, and he said it only in an attempt to extend verbal aid to Pavlov as Pavlov had once done for him.

His voice sounded strange; thin and strained and unsteady.

But there had never been any hope, and Pavlov's next words made it obvious why.

"I also told him," Pavlov began in an odd, cool tone, "to take _you_ back wherever he picked you up from. You surprised me. You can be a dangerous one, colonel, when you try. You don't need to be out here. With _him_." A quick glance at Ivan, and Pavlov smiled, cigar-stained teeth visible in the light. "You two together could be a problem, don't you think? It's best if you go back home before it's too late."

" _This_ is home," Ivan said, sternly, before Ludwig could finish comprehending the words.

Home.

Pavlov didn't _understand_ ; he didn't have a home to go back to. There was no one waiting back _there_ , no one opening the door and looking outside just to see if he was coming. No one remembered him by now. Not even Gilbert. Traitor. He was a traitor, and Gilbert was a liar, so how could going back _there_ have possibly been any better?

Ivan was right. _This_ was home. Wherever Ivan was—that was home.

Ludwig stayed silent, and Pavlov, seeing Ivan's hand fall down onto his shoulder heavily, only shook his head.

"I see."

Just like that, Ivan and Pavlov returned to their intense staring contest, and Ludwig wondered if Pavlov really understood what might happen. Because he wasn't shaking. He didn't look scared. But no; anyone who had known Ivan long enough to call him 'friend' would have to know exactly what would happen if any direct order were disobeyed. Pavlov wasn't stupid. He knew.

Brave.

"Ludwig," Ivan suddenly said, through the crushing silence, and he was caught under Ivan's vice grip squeezing his shoulder. "Do you want to leave?"

Pain.

A throwback to his earlier statement, and Ivan was using his own words to his advantage. What could he do?

"No."

"You see?" Ivan said to Pavlov, voice high and a bit slurred. "See? Don't waste your time. What were you ever thinking?"

Pavlov watched the hand that was gripping Ludwig's shoulder with a grimace of distaste, but eventually only shifted his eyes back to Ivan, keeping his shoulders straight and firm and unmoving even though there had to have been some part of him that was _terrified_ , and when Ivan caught his gaze, he shrugged one shoulder and drawled, "It had to happen, sooner or later."

Ivan tilted his head, a ghost of a smile on his face as his hand fell back down to his side.

"Didn't have to."

Oh, why were they speaking in German? Let them speak in Russian. He didn't want to understand them. Not now.

Ivan's voice was almost mournful. As though he had lost a great friend.

The major laughed, mostly to himself, shaking his head as Ludwig fell back another step, his subconscious urging him to retreat before he witnessed something he did not want to. Ivan saw him slinking away, and reached out with those impossible reflexes, nicking the edge of his loose sleeve and pulling him back over.

He felt sick all of a sudden.

He knew it now; Pavlov was not going to leave this room alive. There was no way. Disobeying an order was one thing. Telling Ivan to get rid of something that he cherished was something else. Too much.

Pavlov spoke again, reverting into Russian (mercifully) as he stood at attention before Ivan, rigid as a board in respect even now, and now his voice trembled. Ivan only shook his head, as though he just couldn't _understand_. Ivan couldn't understand why Pavlov had had the slightest of reluctances to massacring a town.

Ivan couldn't understand.

But Ludwig _could_ , and to see Ivan suddenly reach into his holster and pull out his gun was like witnessing the destruction of a childhood home. Utter despair. Hopelessness. Helplessness. He couldn't stop it.

The steel flashed in the lamplight. Pavlov didn't even flinch.

Just when Ludwig was certain that things couldn't get any worse, a shift of the shadows; Ivan turned to him, that smile of adoration upon his face, and he reached down to take up Ludwig's hand within his own and force open his fingers. The gun was set into his palm.

"Here."

The gun felt heavy and cold in his hand.

"It's alright!" Ivan crooned, seeing the look on his face, "It's not hard. Remember how I showed you? You can do it."

It didn't need to be said. It was obvious. Ivan wanted him to shoot Pavlov. Ivan wanted him to commit murder, this time directly.

His head split open, and for a moment, all he could was reach up with his left hand and cradle his forehead in an awful moment of uncertainty. His heart thudded so hard that he was sure he was going to vomit. He inhaled, hissed, and thought he was going to start crying.

Couldn't breathe.

What could he do? Ivan's hand was on his shoulder again.

"You'll do fine."

The heat of alcohol was all but gone. The room was far too cold.

His hand moved up of his own accord, in a faint echo of how Ivan had held his arm up when teaching him to shoot. He couldn't see straight. His hand was shaking again. Ivan should not have trusted him with his; his hand was trembling so bad that he'd probably miss altogether if he did somehow manage to fire the damn gun.

Pavlov made no move to escape. He just _stood_ there.

Ludwig could barely see him. Just shadows and blurs as his head threatened to explode. He was going to faint. Lightheadedness.

Pavlov smiled at him as he tried to focus his gaze.

"You know," he began, as he turned to Ludwig, sturdy and strong despite the gun pointed at his chest, "I can still see something there, in you. Something I used to have." He raised his hand up, in a slow, steady salute, and Ludwig felt _shamed_ , because he was not military and he had done _nothing_ to deserve being saluted.

That ego of before was gone, replaced with a horrid chill. He felt a bit sick at having been proud of being saluted earlier in the day. Shame.

Pavlov ignored his paleness all the same, and the horrible trembling of the gun in the air, and continued, "Something valuable. Men like us, you know, we lost that long ago." At Ludwig's wide-eyed stare, he elaborated, with a weak smile, "Feelings." A dry laugh, and his eyes met Ludwig's with alarming intensity. "I advise that you do everything you can to hold on to them."

"Hush, now, Dima," came Ivan's gentle voice. A calm, tender chastisement. "Don't lie to him. There was never any hope for men like _us_. Ha, next you'll tell him that we weren't born bad, either."

Pavlov smiled, and Ivan did too, and Ludwig's hand shook more fiercely than ever.

The air was cold.

Men like _them_.

Silence.

...was he one of them? Was he? Didn't know his parents. Maybe he had been born bad, too.

"Ludwig."

The sound of his name dragged him from his stupor, and he looked over at Ivan blearily. Was it alcohol or tears that made him so unable to see? Was he crying? Couldn't tell.

"It's alright. Do it."

Do it. He could do it.

Ivan was watching him, and so was Pavlov.

A quiet observation. "Hold on to yourself." A warning. "I was like you once. Be careful. Soon..." The click of the hammer. "You'll be me."

Ivan's voice melded in.

"Do it."

He had finally gotten the hammer back. He could pull the trigger. He tried. Nothing happened. He was frozen. He had thought it earlier, hadn't he? If Ivan told him to shoot, he would shoot.

But his finger was stuck.

Pavlov waited, at perfect attention and chest puffed out, the very vision of pride and dignity. Waiting his execution.

Ludwig tried to pull the trigger again. Nothing.

It hit him.

He couldn't do it. Oh Christ in heaven, he couldn't do it. He couldn't do it. He couldn't. He couldn't pull the trigger.

He _couldn't_.

The gun fell from his numb fingers, landing on the carpet with a thud. He was shaking. Numb. Everything was numb. Failure. He had let Ivan down. Useless. Couldn't even shoot a gun.

Frozen still and unable even to breathe, he could only stare at the man before him, trembling like a leaf in a breeze, as Ivan's boot made a soft sound upon the carpet as he came forward. A blurry movement. Ivan picked up the gun.

_Murderer._

Everything was blurry.

Pavlov smiled bravely. Or maybe he had no emotions left, and smiled because he just didn't know what else to _do_. Fake it.

Pulling himself unsteadily back upright for the vodka, Ivan took up the gun in his hand in a moment of bleary observation, squinting to focus, and then found the hammer. He pulled it back.

Ludwig stood still, heart lurching and adrenaline racing as Ivan looked over his shoulder and caught his eye with a sloppy smile.

A fond whisper.

"Hey. Don't worry about it. It's alright."

Time stopped, as Ivan stared at him with that unwavering, intense gaze, even so drunk, and for a moment, in that quiet air, Ludwig felt a rising of hope within his chest. Ivan stood still. Wasn't aiming.

A thought crossed Ludwig's mind, and it brought with it a wan smile. Ivan wasn't going to do it! Ivan had just wanted to scare Pavlov. Ivan had known all along that _he_ wouldn't be able to do it. _He_ couldn't pull that trigger. Just another game, was all. Now they could just go back to the hotel and go to sleep and forget this whole night, because Pavlov had learned his lesson, and by god! So had he! Ivan wasn't going to do it. It was just another game. Ivan didn't want to do it. He could see it just in that strangely somber look. Ivan didn't _want_ to kill this man that he valued and admired and perhaps called 'friend'. Just another game—

A motion.

Ivan whirled around, still capable of those tiger speeds even while so intoxicated.

A gunshot.

Ludwig jumped so hard that he nearly fell backwards, arms flying up in a strange twitching next to his head, an automatic mechanism of defense, and he fell back, catching himself against the wall at the last second.

The sound of it was like an explosion in this tiny, quiet room. Then an eerie silence, broken only by a strange gurgle. A rattle.

And then nothing.

With a great breath, Ludwig finally lowered his arms, and opened his eyes.

Ivan was standing in the middle of the room, scratching his head with the barrel of the gun, as he stared down at the floor. A 'tsk' of disappointment. The sharp smell of blood came next, metallic and strong, and from where Ivan stood, Ludwig could see the stain spreading out across the carpet. The gun lowered back down to Ivan's side, and he tilted his head again; the dog, staring down at his kill as if trying to remember why he'd killed it in the first place.

A great sigh.

Giving in a bit to his intoxication, Ivan staggered back and forth as he hung his head and whispered to himself, tapping the gun on his thigh as he muttered under his breath, voice low and despondent, "Dima, Dima, _druzhba druzhboi, a sluzhba sluzhboi."_

Then he stumbled over to the end-table that held the phone, passing by Ludwig and leaving him to lean against the wall and breath so hard that he was on the verge of hyperventilating.

Ivan took up the phone in his hand.

Now that he had moved, Ludwig could see Pavlov. Lying there on the floor, above a pool of blood. A single shot to the heart. Pavlov's fingers were still twitching with the final firing of nerves, the poor son of a bitch. Stupid. Hadn't he known this would happen? Couldn't he have just done his job? A stark reminder that this was where a conscience brought you in Ivan's world.

Off to the side, Ivan was cursing.

"Ludwig!"

He looked over, dumbly.

Ivan was having difficulty.

"Shit," Ivan grumbled to himself, as his finger poked clumsily at the numbers on the phone as he swayed back and forth, squinting his eyes to focus them, and it was obvious that he was far too intoxicated to dial the number he wanted. Ivan was still drunk under the table. Ludwig was crashing. _Hard_.

The smell of blood.

"Ludwig, come _here_ ," Ivan finally mewled, voice high with frustration, "Dial this damn number for me! ...can't get it."

Numbly, Ludwig wobbled over and did as he was told, feeling like a ghost, punching numbers blindly as Ivan said them aloud, and he didn't even stop to think about who he was calling. It didn't matter.

He wasn't sure if he wanted to laugh, cry, or throw up. His head was spinning. Confusion.

Oh, he hated that _smell_.

The call was going through. A few seconds of ringing, and then a click, and then, after a hesitation, a rough, sleepy voice said, mechanically, " _Allo_?"

For a moment, he stood still, uncertain of what to say to this person, and finally Ivan said, "Did he pick up?"

Ludwig could only nod.

"Took long enough! Tell him—tell him to get that shitty little _Ilyushin_ out of the snow and to get his ass in Kyiv by tomorrow evening."

" _Allo_?"

Ludwig stood frozen, and then finally managed to whisper, "The...the what?"

"The _Ilyushin_! The plane, the plane, that little piece of shit cargo thing, tell him to get out there and meet us tomorrow."

Dazed and still feeling horrifically numb, Ludwig raised the phone up, and when he heard the voice on the other line say, apprehensively, " _Allo? Ivan?_ " he realized finally that it was Toris. Just Toris. _Oh_ —needed Toris now, needed him so bad, so bad and he wasn't here, wasn't.

Alone.

"Toris," he finally said, voice so low and rough that it cracked with the effort, "It's me. It's me, I—"

" _Ludwig_!" Toris interrupted urgently, " _What are you doing? What's happened? Are you alright? Where are you at? Where's Ivan? Are you alright? Huh_?"

He fell silent under Toris' panic, and when finally he was given an opportunity to speak, he wanted to say, 'No, I'm not alright! I need your help! Please come _get_ me!'

But he didn't. Instead, he only droned, mechanically, "Get the plane. You need to be in Kyiv by tomorrow evening."

" _Wha—but, what's happened? Oh, Ludwig, are you okay? Won't you_ —"

Slowly, he set the phone down. Click. He didn't know what else to do. Maybe Toris had been right all along. He should have kept that stupid rock.

"Is he coming?" Ivan asked from behind, and Ludwig nodded.

As if Toris would ever say 'no'. Ha.

Blood.

Hands were suddenly on his shoulders, and Ivan whirled him around, the smile still on his face. Croons of comfort, and Ludwig was vaguely aware that he was being led over to the side.

The creak of a door. Shadow and darkness.

Once again, he looked up, and found himself in the threshold of a closet.

He didn't bother to try and get out of this one, because he'd messed up. He hadn't shot Pavlov, like Ivan had instructed. He'd failed. There was no excuse for failure. Ivan demanded perfection. He would accept his punishment as any soldier would have been expected to accept a reprimand.

Ivan leaned forward, and placed a firm kiss upon his forehead.

"Sleep," he commanded, gently, as he held Ludwig in between light and dark with firm hands. "We're going to Kyiv in the morning to fix this mess. We can do this. You'll do better than he ever could have. And don't worry, I'm not mad at you! It's alright, you're just working up to it, is all. You just need some more time."

More time. Was that what he needed? Would time make this awful feeling go away?

"I'm really proud of you. You did so well today! I was right, you know? This is where you belong. _Remember_ that."

He nodded, and when Ivan let him go, he stood there, taking in as much of Ivan as he could before the door finally shut.

Darkness.

Immediately, the shadows started to stir. Whispering in the dark.

"Sleep."

Ivan's voice was muffled and distant.

A moment of silence.

Then there was the dull, hollow thud of Ivan collapsing back against the door, and a heavy whisper, as Ivan breathed to no one just outside, "Idiot. I can handle this myself. Who ever needed him? I could have done it all myself..."

German faded into drunken Russian. Ivan faded into sleep.

A faint whisper, barely audible :

"Ludwig?"

Falling forward in the pitch-black, Ludwig rested against the door, pressing his ear desperately against the thick oak as he struggled to hear Ivan's soft voice.

"I'm here. Don't worry. I won't leave you alone. I promise."

He wasn't worried. He trusted Ivan. Ivan wouldn't leave him here.

"I know," was all he could manage, as Ivan's deep breathing through the door kept the whispers at bay.

"We'll go together. We can do it. You'll be fine."

The metallic smell of blood was creeping under the door.

He waited, ear against the wood, but Ivan spoke no more. Only the sound of his own breathing, and the rustling of his clothes as he shifted. When he spread out, his legs bumped into the wall. No room to lie down.

Something was moving. He could hear something. Voices. Coming to torment him now that he was alone in the darkness.

Pressing his back into the door, he pulled his knees up to his chest and covered his ears with his palms, bowing his head down and struggling against the horrible voices in his head.

Just voices.

_Murderer._

Just voice, that was all. Ivan was real, and Pavlov was dead. Nothing would change that. Why worry about it? Pavlov had brought it on himself. Idiot. Ivan was a murderer.

But so was he.

He didn't sleep that night, palms ever over his ears as he blocked out the whispers.

They slept in Pavlov's room that night. Ludwig leaning on one side of the door, Ivan leaning on the other, and the motionless body off in the center. Ivan was as good as his word; he did not leave Ludwig there, and as soon as Ivan drifted back into consciousness in the morning light, the closet door creaked open.

Ivan grabbed his hand, and they left.

They left him there. No one ever came knocking to see what the commotion was.

His second murder. It was easier somehow than the first. Not during the act itself, but afterwards. It was easier afterwards, and when they stepped out together into the streets, he didn't feel guilty. He didn't feel sad. He didn't feel remorse. Actually, he didn't feel _anything_.

Anything at all.

They left him there, alone.

He'd brought it upon himself.


	31. The Trees are Watching

**Chapter 31**

**The Trees are Watching**

The next journey was much quicker than the last. Instead of ten days, a little over ten hours.

Ludwig sat there on the train, still and quiet, just like before, as Ivan slung a heavy arm over his shoulder and crooned away in his ear. He didn't comprehend the words. He just stared out of the window, and watched the little towns and forests pass, dressed in his silvery uniform and the gun at his belt too heavy. He was on his way to his own little town outside of Kyiv. Did it have a name? Maybe. Did it matter?

No. Ivan would crush it all the same.

Lifting his eyes up to the grey sky, Ludwig watched the clouds and, absurdly, tried to catch a glimpse of a little airplane on high.

Toris might have already been there.

Maybe Toris wouldn't show at all. What if the plane crashed, or poor Toris simply couldn't free it from the Siberian ice to get it underway? What if Toris wasn't there when they arrived? Couldn't stand the thought. He _needed_ to see Toris. Ivan was god; so he needed _Toris_ , because Toris was human, and so was he, and he needed that reassurance of an equal. Of someone who had done this all before. Of someone who was experienced and seasoned.

He needed Toris, if only to have living proof before him that everything would turn out alright.

Good god, they couldn't possibly get worse, not worse.

Needed Toris to tell him that it was gonna be okay.

Beside of him, that heavy arm wrapped firmly around his shoulders, Ivan leaned into him, and buried his face in the side of Ludwig's neck with a weary moan. Maybe a little hungover.

Hours passed.

His thoughts were muddled and disjointed. Darkness that came and went.

Tried so hard to pretend last night hadn't happened at all, but couldn't because it was the only reason he was on this train right now. Couldn't forget, because Ivan had him on the warpath. Standing up on top of the tank yesterday had been the work of fate, perhaps; Ivan was taking him out into a military excursion, where he was expected to stand upon the tank again, only this time he had to be in command of it and the men below.

Oh. He felt _sick_.

Ivan had too much faith in him. Couldn't even shoot a gun. How was he supposed to raze a town?

The white trees passed by in a blur, and his breath fogged up the glass as he turned his eyes back and forth.

Panic mounting.

Ivan's breath was warm on his neck as he slept away. Rocking back and forth, back and forth, as the train lurched forward.

Terror. As much faith as Ivan had in him, he didn't believe in himself. He was going to choke, and then he would turn around only to see Ivan shake his head in disappointment. Letting Ivan down. That was what he was most afraid of. Wasn't afraid of the prospect of his raid so much as the thought of letting Ivan down.

The hours passed quickly, Russia turned into Ukraine, Ivan woke up as the afternoon sun hung high in the sky, and Ludwig looked at his reflection in the window of the train, trying to keep his face calm.

Beyond the sky, behind the passing trees, beyond the snow and the grey and the cold, himself. He looked fine. He looked professional and ready.

God help him, he didn't _feel_ that way.

He wanted to turn to Ivan and ask exactly what he would be doing, but some part of him really didn't want to know, and maybe not knowing in this instance was the only thing keeping him from becoming a puddle of nerves. He would wait and see, and hopefully Ivan would give him a briefing on the way. A briefing. Ha; like he was actually military. This role of imposter was starting to feel a little normal. Maybe in time, he could fall into this so well that he just forgot that he had ever been a civilian in the first place.

Like Toris. He wanted to be like that. Wanted to be just like Toris. He wanted to see Toris. To look to what to be. Ivan trusted Toris. Toris did everything Ivan asked, with skill and precision. Toris went off on his own into the world and knew how to interact and survive.

He looked to Toris.

When afternoon faded into evening, Ivan started to perk up a little and look around. The first thing he said, when he was alert, was, "It's warm here!"

Well. Warm _er_ , maybe. As they approached Kyiv the snow seemed to get wetter and wetter, and the icicles on the train started to drip a little with the humidity. And that, to Ivan, was no doubt warm.

The fields turned into houses, and then a city. Kyiv.

The train station came soon. Just as densely populated as the station in Moscow. Just as noisy.

When the train came to a halt, Ivan stood up and slid the screen open, and led him out into the open. People were making their way to the door, but Ivan didn't seem to enjoy lines, pushing through them without a second thought. Ludwig, as usual, could only try to keep up with him.

People all around. None of them knew what was going to happen out here. They passed through the crowd with relative ease, and, with an eerie repeat of the journey to Moscow, there was a black car waiting in the street.

Déjà vu.

The car was in front of him a little too quickly, and when Ivan held open the door, and there was no turning back. He got in. Even though he knew that this car would take him to somewhere he may not have really wanted to be. No going back. He had to push forward.

They drove for an hour or so, leaving the tall buildings of the city behind and going out into the country, where the houses were few and far between. Some quiet little village in the middle of nowhere was laying right in the path of destruction. Roads passed. Hardly any cars out here.

As they came closer, they had to stop, and Ludwig saw why.

A roadblock was set up. Armored vehicles and men in uniform blocked the path, rifles in hand. It was only when they saw Ivan's uniform that they lifted the gate and let them pass, and Ludwig realized with a bit of nausea that they had closed down the roads not so that no one could get in, but so that no one could get out.

So no villagers would flee the target area.

This had been set up days in advance. Had they opened the gates, he wondered, for women and children that had wanted to leave? He doubted it.

After the roadblock, the ride continued for half an hour, and then the car pulled into a field. There were no signs. No gates. No buildings.

Just a field.

The sight of it lit up Ludwig's terror like a fire.

It was full of tanks and vehicles, and soldiers that leaned back and smoked as they waited for the general to arrive. Most of them looked quite bored. They were probably wondering, above all else, why they needed to wait for a general and a colonel for what was to them surely a very simple and very easy mission.

How could they have known that this was meant to break the 'colonel' in?

Maybe it had been explained to them that this was an exercise to show the GDR how things were done out here in the heart of the Soviet Union. Maybe they had been told that the major had suddenly had duty elsewhere and didn't have time to do this anymore.

The car stopped, but the engine didn't turn, and Ivan said, simply, "Wait here."

Ludwig did, already cold-sweating, and watched from the window as Ivan stepped out and went out into the middle of the soldiers. Minutes of talking, planning and mapping, and the soldiers saluted and broke off into their vehicles.

Everything felt a little blurry.

The tanks started lurching upwards, working their way up the muddy field. The armored cars followed, and when Ivan leapt back inside, their own car cut into the middle of the line and began its slow crawl upward.

There was no road. They just drove up through the high grass and the mud. Why go this way, if the roads had all been blocked? Why try to sneak up, if the students already expected them? What was the sense?

He didn't understand any of this.

He didn't understand why these students had ever been deemed a great threat when all they ever really did was start riots in the streets and read things they weren't supposed to. They weren't dangerous, weren't criminals; just wanted to know what was going on in the West. That was all. How was that dangerous? How was that a crime?

Things were so different out here. Back _there_ , a riot in the street had earned a man a night in jail, if he caused a great disturbance, and maybe a fine.

Not death.

The car rocked back and forth as it fought with the mud. He clenched his hands in his lap, turned his eyes to the window, and tried not to give away his nervousness. Ivan saw it anyway.

Warm breath on his neck, and then a low whisper. "Don't worry so much. You'll do fine."

How could Ivan know? How could Ivan have such faith in him? He didn't understand that, either.

He sat still, and didn't move a muscle, staring out at the passing fields. He could hear the tanks barreling forward ahead of them and behind them. He tried to be strong, and act brave, even though he didn't really _feel_ brave.

Ivan expected so _much_ of him.

As if reading his mind, Ivan suddenly reached out, slung an overbearing arm around his shoulders, leaned in close, and whispered, "You've come so far! I'm so proud of you."

Mystified and dazed and maybe a little hypnotized, he could only turn to look at Ivan, and breathe, "Really?"

He wanted to ask, 'What if I fuck this up? Will you still be proud of me?' but no such words came.

And when Ivan gave one single, fervent nod, it didn't matter anymore.

He was sold.

The confidence that such simple words brought up was amazing. He straightened up, slung his right arm up on the windowsill, leaned back, and watched the trees and grass pass.

Proud. Making a man like Ivan proud was next to impossible. Confidence crept up and took over the nervousness. Ivan's dominance and self-assurance made it a little easier to believe in himself. For a while there, as the car bumped up and down and as Ivan's arm hung above his shoulder, Ludwig smiled. The life of a soldier was just to follow orders. An easy life. Not thinking about what you were doing was sometimes a blessing.

Just do as he was told, and not think about it. Like Toris.

The car crept up the field slowly, stuck in between the languid tanks, and the sky began to darken as the sun ever lowered. The high grass rippled in the breeze. The air was cold. Damp.

Finally, he could see the outline of little houses in the distance. Smoke rising from chimneys. Quiet. Calm.

They stopped, all of them, cars, tanks, military vehicles, outside there, in the mud. Outside of the town limits. Waiting for the moment to spring. Their car finally came to halt, amidst the vehicles, and Ivan stepped out. Ludwig lingered, for a little, a bit overwhelmed and a bit stunned and a bit scared.

Seeing the town dampened the confidence.

A noise at his side startled him, and he looked over to see Ivan standing above, holding the door open for him and smiling. Abashed, Ludwig stepped out, stifling the churning of his stomach and the tremor of his hands as he tried to return Ivan's smile.

Ivan, perhaps in an attempt to calm him, shut the door, and whispered, lowly, "I apologize. I didn't realize you liked to have the door opened for you. I'll be more of a gentleman from now on."

He tried to laugh. A weak, rough scratch came out.

Confident? Nope. All gone. He felt suddenly so nervous. Daunted. Seeing the little town up there...

It was different, somehow, than what his imagination had offered him.

Ivan placed a quick hand on his shoulder, trying to urge him along, and he felt himself walking mechanically, keeping his shoulders tensed and eyes straight ahead. They rounded the car, and came into a clearing, where the soldiers were gathering.

The soldiers had impressed him before, but in that moment, there was something else that caught his eye, something else that lit up his veins with adrenaline and made him want to run over.

Toris.

Oh, god. Toris. Toris. That beautiful bastard. Hadn't ever wanted to go running to Toris before and crawl into his arms, but he sure as hell did now. Couldn't, though, not now, and that was rather painful.

Standing there in neat uniform, arms crossed above his chest and looking over the men with something very close to a sneer, Toris was speaking lowly to another officer, and it struck Ludwig, instantly, that Toris looked like he knew exactly what he was doing. Toris looked calm. Impassive. Ready to set this thing in motion and see it off, however it went. Confident.

That what who _he_ wanted to be. He couldn't really recall why he had ever felt any pity for Toris in the first place. Toris had this all _down_. That was how he wanted to be. Like Toris, who stood there amongst these men and didn't even miss a beat, gliding above them with authority that was _real_ in the way that he wielded it. Toris, who stood there with gun at his side, looking as if this was just business as usual. Nothing out of the ordinary.

Toris.

Their eyes met suddenly, Toris stopped in the middle of speech, just for a fraction of a second, the look on his face that of concern, and it was only Ivan standing there that kept Toris from rushing forward. Breaking the contact, Toris turned his head and continued his conversation as if nothing had happened, and Ludwig looked up at the sky, and waited. Waiting. Just waiting. All he could really do. The language barrier prevented him from being like Toris and Ivan and conversing casually with other officers.

Other officers. Like he was one of them.

Sometimes...

His head hurt.

Sometimes being somebody was almost as scary as being nobody.

Ivan started to wander farther and farther away.

The second Ivan left to go off and speak to the men waiting beyond and was out of sight, Toris ended the conversation and sped over to Ludwig, grabbing a fistful of his sleeve, hissing quietly, "Ludwig! Are you alright? Huh? You okay?"

Ludwig stood there for a second, too numb to react. He didn't know what to do. He was out of his element. He was a little scared. A little distraught. But, for all of it, he was alright. So, finally, he nodded his head.

Wanted to cry, honestly, and burrow his head under Toris shirt, but that wasn't really an option out here, now was it? Better to pretend, and try to take comfort in Toris' presence.

Toris looked around suddenly, and then tugged his sleeve, and Toris dragged him off towards a car, where they were out of earshot from the others. Warm hands fell on his shoulders as Toris studied him up and down very intently, as if checking him for injuries.

"You're alright? Are you sure?"

He nodded again, and tried to appear easygoing, even as the nervousness crept up. Toris still looked so _worried_.

"I'm glad. I was... I thought something had happened to you. If you ever need me, don't wait until something happens to call, got it?"

A numb, "Yeah."

Toris finally let him go, and reached up to tug irritably at his collar as he furrowed his brow.

"Well! I am glad you're alright. What happened last night?"

He didn't really want to speak about it, not all of it, and simply said, "Pavlov backed out."

Luckily, Toris seemed to understand very well the implication, and shook his head.

"And left it all on you, huh?" he muttered, a bit bitterly, and Ludwig just shrugged. No changing it. He could rise up to this occasion, if he really tried.

"It's alright. I guess it was gonna happen sooner or later, huh? I mean... You do this all the time, don't you?"

Toris' brow lowered and his nose crinkled, and he almost looked annoyed. Toris opened his mouth as if to speak, but no sound came out, and in the end he only scoffed and looked over. Ivan was coming back. Toris backed up, sent Ludwig one last look, and then went to Ivan's side. Ivan fell into step with Toris, and they spoke lowly. Together, they passed by each and every tank, no doubt relaying plans and orders.

Ludwig stood behind, alone and awkward, and felt so out of place. He didn't know what to do. So, he just stood still, and tried to emulate what he saw. He watched Toris more than Ivan, because it was easier to feel like he could manage to perform the actions that Toris did. Since Ivan was god? Kinda hard to even think of following in his footsteps. He watched Toris, who walked straight and sure and kept one hand in his pocket, the other loose at his side, who kept his shoulders squared and chin high and expression blank. Toris was easier to imitate.

His observation was cut short suddenly, when Toris disappeared within the group and Ivan suddenly reappeared much closer than before, striding towards him with a smile.

Ludwig fell still, and tried to appear unfazed. He tucked a hand in his pocket.

Toris made it look easy. His heart was thudding.

Ivan settled in next to him where he stood, and turned to stare off in the distance, folding his arms behind his back.

"Well. Everything's set. We're about ready to move. We're going off in three groups. Get them all around, you know."

Ludwig tried to speak, failed, and only nodded. Felt distant. Dazed. Surreal and far away.

"Ludwig."

He looked up at Ivan's voice, and straightened up at attention as Toris had taught him. In the field, Ivan wasn't Ivan. He was the general. The boss.

"There are three groups. Three commanding officers. You, Toris, and myself."

A horrible sinking in stomach. He understood. Oh, _no_.

Ivan, staring straight ahead, arms still behind his back, only lifted his brow.

"Left or right?"

Too stunned for a minute to really comprehend, he only furrowed his brow, and looked around. Left or right?

Ivan looked over at him, now, and his smile was still there. A good sign.

"Well? Do you want the left or the right? Toris is center." Ivan tilted his head up to the waiting town. "Left is mostly forest. Right is field and houses. They need to be run out. They'll run into the forest once it all starts. They've got a little 'barricade' or some such off in the center, but that's no problem! Toris can take care of that easy enough. The tanks will run it right over. So. Left or right? You choose one, and I'll take the other. We meet Toris in the center. Which is it?"

It was just a choice. Left or right.

"The field will take longer, for the houses."

Just a choice, and Ivan was nudging him towards the easier direction.

And so he didn't really know why his chest suddenly threatened to clench up, and why he had to tuck his hands deep in his pockets so that Ivan wouldn't see them shaking.

Left. Forest.

Right. Field.

_Oh_. Couldn't they have just stayed together? He didn't want to go off alone.

Ivan was waiting. No choice. Orders were orders. He had to decide. Bracing his boots in the mud, he cracked his knuckles against his thighs, absently, and finally said, "Left. I'll go left."

"Left it is."

Ivan reached out, clapped him on the back, and then walked off.

And Ludwig was alone.

He could have held it together well if Ivan had just stuck with him, he _knew_ he could have. But alone? His hands were shaking so badly that he could barely keep them in his pockets.

Ivan's section suddenly started rolling out. Toris' was already gone.

Oh, _shit_.

Whirling around on his heel, adrenaline the only thing keeping him standing upright, he stalked over to his own half as fast as he could. A group of soldiers stood patiently in front of the forest, and even when they looked at Ludwig at perfect attention, awaiting his orders, he just felt so _sick_. He just wanted to go back home all of a sudden. He didn't know what to do.

But they were watching him, and Ivan was already gone, and the trees were swaying in the breeze as the sky turned ever darker. He had to try. Time to go. The left was his. Ivan was counting on him.

The men watched him as he approached, and since there was a language barrier, he did what he had seen Toris do when telling men where to go; he raised two fingers, and pointed straight at the forest.

So damn terrified that he was surprised his arm could even stay there in the air at all.

Luckily, these experienced soldiers seemed to know exactly what to do, and everyone started moving. He was glad. Easy enough. He followed behind, even though he wasn't really sure if he should. Officers such as Ivan and Toris and himself (himself! Ha) shouldn't really have been doing field work like this, not on the frontlines, but Ivan wanted to test him out, so he really didn't have a choice.

Felt so helpless, thrown out into the middle of the ocean with no life-vest.

He followed them.

The trees rose up all around him. As soon as stepped into the forest, where light was all but gone and the air was very different, he felt a sense of something almost like foreboding. Wandering into these ancient forests with dark intentions...

A bad start to every single bedtime story ever written.

The wind didn't reach deep into the trees, and everything became still. The soldiers pushed forward ahead, guns ready before them, stepping carefully and quietly and keeping a good eye on their surroundings. Once the battle started out in the open, the town would flee into the forests. Maybe some of them were here already, waiting in the dark for them to step near. Maybe they had set up an ambush.

Every noise within the forest seemed suddenly ominous. At least out in the field, it was easier to see what was going on around them. In here, restricted by the trees, it was harder to maneuver and harder to see and harder to focus or pinpoint movement. Ludwig put his feet down as lightly as possible upon the forest floor, careful not to make much noise, but every so often a twig snapped underneath someone's boots, and every time it happened he tensed up and looked around in silent alarm, afraid they would be heard.

But nothing happened.

Walking.

The forest was huge. How could they possibly be expected to keep watch over the entire thing? They should have split off into a line and expanded their visual capabilities. But he didn't know how to say it, how to explain it to them, so he kept quiet and followed behind.

Footsteps over the pine needles. Patches of snow, here and there. It was cold.

Some of the soldiers held low conversations with friends under their breath, and sometimes they looked back at him as if contemplating engaging him, but he neatly avoided their gazes and kept his brow low. Trying to appear uninterested. Maybe they'd go back later on, and say that he was too serious. Oh, well. Not the worst thing they could say about him.

He just hoped they wouldn't say that he was incompetent. Even though he was.

They walked on, the trees passing by without great event, and with every step, he hoped that maybe Toris' center had simply blocked anyone from fleeing into the forests. That would _really_ make his job easy.

Oh, god, he wasn't expected to actually take out his gun and shoot, was he? He was just here to lead them through the forest, right? That was it. It was their job to shoot. Not his. Hadn't been able to pull the trigger last night. Wouldn't be able to today, either, he was sure.

Minutes passed within the trees, and he wondered if the villagers had any tales about this place, any stories or legends. He wondered if anything lived out here. Monsters or spirits or demons. Forests were strange places. Lost in mist.

Or maybe his head was the misty one. The headache was a growing twinge behind his eyes.

Tried to think of other things.

Everything was quiet. Calm. The trees had a pleasant, musky aroma. The branches above shifted with the fluttering of birds, woken from sleep by their movements. Peaceful. This forest was not frightening, not like the one back home. There weren't any tigers here, ready to leap out of the shadows and grab someone by the neck and drag them off. Just a normal forest, uncut and not bothered by humans. He was right to choose the forest. Better than the fields, maybe, if only because it was so empty.

Some of the soldiers had fallen behind him, keeping an eye on the flank. They knew what they were doing. This was nothing for them. And, hell, maybe they longed to impress as much as he did. All in the same boat, perhaps.

Something shifted off to the side. He turned his head.

The silence was suddenly and randomly shattered.

An explosion.

A great noise to his left startled him so that he jumped, and when he looked over, bristling in alarm and eyes wide, he saw that the soldiers under his command had started to open fire.

The birds fled.

For a moment, dazed and uncomprehending, he tried to raise his hand, to say, 'Stop, you idiots, they'll hear us!'

But then he heard shots on the right, and he realized that the forest was not empty. They were not alone.

He stood frozen, as sparks of light and fire lit up the darkness of the forest. He should have gotten down, taken cover, but he was stuck in place. Mindlessly, absurdly, he took his gun out of his belt and gripped it for dear life. Ha. As if this little pistol stood a chance against sub-machine guns. Oh, man. He remembered suddenly the very first time Toris had hooked the gun onto his belt.

_I_ _hope you don't think it's loaded!_

He looked down, at the steel gleaming in the dim light of the dying day outside, and for an awful second he almost started giggling. Fuckin' gun might not have even been loaded. Ivan had sent him out here without any defense. As if Ivan just expected him to walk out of this whole thing unscathed. Alive. Ivan didn't seem to think he could die. Easy for Ivan, who may or may not have been immortal, but he was very much human, and very much capable of getting shot and bleeding to death.

This was _not_ what he had expected. He didn't know exactly what he had expected, really. But not this. Not being caught in the middle of a field of bullets. Not this. Hadn't expected this.

He was too stunned to even bend down or get behind a tree.

Shouting.

He stood there, unmoving and unbending, as the gunfire erupted all around, and he could only watch the soldiers, and admire, however blearily, their fearlessness. Their bravery. They pushed forward in the forest, even in the dark, and didn't really seem to mind that people were shooting at them.

As the shock started to wear off a little, he managed to focus his eyes and ears, and hear differences. Quick fire to slow fire. Different sounds of discharge. The students weren't shooting with machine guns. Pistols, and maybe rifles. Brave? No, the soldiers weren't really brave, because this wasn't a fair fight at all.

No match.

Ludwig couldn't really see the students, not for the dim light and his own daze, and he was glad for that. He'd rather not see them fall. He kept his eyes instead on his own soldiers. None of them had fallen. Not a single one. Good. Would Ivan judge him on how many soldiers he brought out of the forest alive? Did a dead soldier subtract a few points?

...should that thought have even crossed his mind?

No. But it was so much easier to take himself out of this situation and look at everything as just numbers, and not people. It made it a hell of a lot easier. Instead of a dead man, it was just one down. Two down. Three down. So forth. Easier.

He didn't look at the students.

The gunfire suddenly stopped, as quickly and randomly as it had begun.

Silence.

He thought he heard a strange cry from within the trees. The sound of death.

He pushed it aside, and stared ahead. As he stood there, tall and unmoving in the line of fire, a soldier suddenly passed him, and fell to a halt right beside of him. Ludwig looked over, dumbly, and the soldier lowered his gun to his waist, and he sent Ludwig a great smile and a deep laugh, and then, predicting the miscommunication, he gave a thumbs up.

Good job. For what?

Or maybe, 'you've got a lot of balls for just standing there while they're shooting all over the place.'

He wasn't brave—he was just too stunned and too dazed to move. Too damn stupid to duck for cover.

The soldier suddenly saluted him then, still smiling in that cheeky way, and the movement was enough to break through the stupor and remind Ludwig that he couldn't stall and he couldn't waver, because Ivan had left him in charge of these men, and he was a colonel now. He couldn't falter. He couldn't freeze.

And if Ivan said he couldn't die, then he couldn't.

This was _his_ group. He had chosen them. Even though they knew what to do, he still needed to try and keep in charge of things. Being in charge of things had seemed so damn amazing yesterday. Now? Not quite so much. Too much goddamn pressure.

The gunfire had startled him. He'd never heard anything like it.

He tried his best anyway, and placed his gun back in its holster, and with a sudden squaring of his shoulders, he gave the soldier a quick nod and then pushed off into the trees. The only thing he really knew to do was try to get ahead of the group once he caught up to them and try to pretend like he knew what the fuck he was doing.

He ran through the trees as fast as his unsteady legs would allow him, the soldier that had stopped with him hot on his heels.

The farther he walked, there was more gunfire. Not as intense as the first time. He didn't bother to keep his hand above his gun; he wasn't sure it was even loaded, and if it was, then he wasn't even sure that he could pull the trigger. He'd flunked that test once already.

He wound through the trees, passing some of his soldiers on the way. How many did he even have? Fifty or so? Less?

The gunfire ahead was starting to slow, as he ducked and shoved his way through low-hanging branches, patches of snow and dead leaves crunching beneath his boots as he went, and it seemed now with every long stride he was passing by another soldier. Another, and then some more, and then the gunfire stopped altogether, and he fell to a complete stop when he realized that he had gotten back ahead. At the front of the pack.

He turned around, trying to get his bearings, and felt the old rush of adrenaline. The soldiers were behind him, standing still, guns in their hands and waiting for him to order them. Oh, god. What now? He hated them watching him like that, like they were expecting something great from him.

He had no clue. No clue. But, like Ivan said, it was just a game.

He straightened up and set his feet, and asked, as loudly as he dared, "Anyone speak German?"

No one raised their hand. Just looks of blankness. Alright.

"Anyone speak English?"

He looked them over, and oh, Christ, never had he been so relieved to see someone raise their fuckin' hand. He was no English scholar, that was for sure, but he'd learned enough to fumble at least _this_. He'd learned. From who?

_Better dead than Red!_

Did it matter? Nope. He was too busy to think.

He waved the soldier over with an errant hand, trying for all the world to look like this was exceedingly boring, and when the man stopped at his side and saluted, he reached out and grabbed him by the arm, maybe a little too forcefully.

The soldier lowered his salute, and said, in a low, apprehensive whisper, "I only speak, ah, a _little_?"

"Me too," Ludwig replied, as he tugged him over close enough to where he could speak quietly.

He could do this. He could. All he had ever wanted in his life was for someone to be proud of him. He could impress Ivan with this. Just by not choking.

With the thought of a proud Ivan in his head, he leaned his head in towards the soldier's and said, hiding the anxiety very well, "We split up in three. One goes up, one goes down. One goes front, with me."

Mimicking Ivan and Toris. Easy enough.

"Yes, sir!"

Sir. Damn right, _sir_.

...that was kinda neat.

Despite the awful sounds of gunfire. He hadn't _seen_ anything, not really. So it wasn't so bad. He just had to live up in his head, and keep his eyes turned away. The ends justified the means. In this case, these awful deeds were worth it, all worth it, if Ivan just thought highly of him.

The soldier was already dividing the men into groups.

At the last second, Ludwig stepped up next to him and said, "You're comin' with me."

"Yes, colonel."

"Clear the forest. Meet up at the front of the trees."

"Yes, sir."

"Let's go."

A quick translation, and they set off.

This time, he didn't freeze, and stayed up front, walking at the side of the soldier who could understand him (if only a little), the others walking quietly behind.

Maybe he should have stayed behind the guns, but, well, he wouldn't lie. He wanted word to get back to Ivan that he had walked in front, with no weapon in hand. Because that was a good thing, right? He wanted them to respect him. He had never been anyone.

Being so important all of a sudden was probably not the best thing for his ego. His pride would kill him one day.

The others were gone, lost in the trees and their stealth, and Ludwig could only walk straight ahead, keeping a mind of their silence, and after a while, he started to feel as though maybe he had been a little ridiculous earlier, for freezing up like he did. This wasn't really so hard. As long as he kept on a straight path. He'd done harder things than this.

It wasn't like he was alone. Ivan and Toris weren't here, sure, but he had backup in the form of the Soviet Army. That was more than enough. It seemed highly unlikely that any of the unorganized and untrained students would be able to get close enough to him to put him in harm's way with all of the soldiers around.

He wasn't worried about himself. There was just something else nagging him, underneath the surface...

Something he couldn't quite grasp.

They kept pushing forward through the trees, the soldiers behind him chatting quietly amongst themselves about who knew what. One of the soldiers behind him burst into quiet giggles, surely at some dumb joke, and by now Ludwig had to squint a little to see around him, as the day continued to die.

Night.

The soldier at his side stopped sometimes and tilted his head, when he thought he heard something, but in the end he always carried on without event. So far, so good. He let his mind wander.

The smell of the forest was damp and musty. The air was cold. Humidity was high. For it all, he'd rather be home. He had gotten used to the freezing, dry, clean air of Mirny. Home. When had Mirny become home? He couldn't exactly remember. Not that he really needed to; as far as Ivan was concerned, Mirny had been home since the instant Ludwig had first walked through the door.

A shuffle.

Sounds. Footsteps.

He stopped now, as did the soldier beside him, and perked up his eyes as he attempted to pinpoint.

He didn't really have much time. Footsteps broke over the silence, louder and louder, and when three or four men suddenly burst through the trees, he barely even had time to react before the explosions started and the bullets whizzed through the branches. Yeah, he should have stayed behind the guns; one bullet came so close from behind him that it ripped the embroidery on his shoulder.

A brief heat on his skin.

Shouting.

It happened very quickly. One second, bursts of movement and noise. The next, nothing. The fleeing students, all gunned down in quick succession, fell down in the snow and leaves. They didn't move. They fell right in front of Ludwig. He couldn't _help_ but see them. Even if he didn't want to.

He looked down at himself, feeling as though everything were suddenly in slow motion, and when he noticed the rip on his shoulder patch, there was a horrible, burning rush of anger.

Oh, _god_. He couldn't—

Fury.

Whirling around, he stomped his foot on the ground and barked, in the harshest voice he'd heard himself use in years, "Who _did_ that?"

Ivan, perhaps, would have pulled his gun out and shot whoever dared to nick him. The closest he'd ever come to being shot. They gawked at him in obvious alarm, shifting their guns and shuffling their feet, but no one copped up, and oh, he couldn't even keep his chest still he was _so_ angry.

He wasn't angry over the uniform. He wasn't angry over the brush with a bullet. He wasn't angry at any of them.

He was angry at _everything_.

A horrible feeling, that he couldn't place, and he hadn't been _so_ angry in so long, and his chest suddenly ached and his head hurt like hell.

Students.

A terrible image in his mind, of a group of students, sitting around a table and plotting to overthrow the government, laughing and joking and playing with guns, and amongst them sat a man with tired eyes and hair so pale that it shone out silver in the lights above, older than the rest and yet still laughing like a little kid, thinking he could get away with such _stupid_ things—

Oh, he felt dizzy all of a sudden.

Reaching up to place an irritable hand on the back of his neck, he turned back around, where the students laid there on the ground, and the only reason he managed to take a step then and carry on was because he was gonna be _sick_ if he stood there and stared at them.

Dumb kids. What did they think they could accomplish?

He stepped over them. He had to go. He wanted that feeling of anger and something else to go away. He wanted that image in his head to go away. Because _that man_ didn't belong in his head anymore. He shouldn't have been thinking about _him_. He shouldn't have been thinking about what if it had been _him_ out here, if it had been _him_...

It wasn't. So it didn't matter.

He walked as quickly as he could, his long legs serving him well in keeping a pace ahead of the others, and he was glad for that because they wouldn't be able to see the look on his face as he struggled with the sudden urge to burst into tears. So long he had striven out here to rid himself of uncertainty. Feeling it again was unpleasant. Feeling as if something was not right. As if what he was doing was not right.

He hated that feeling.

There were more shadows and more footsteps as he sought desperately the edge of the forest, but he paid no mind to them, trying to force himself to lose his thoughts, and when the gunfire erupted on either side of him and bodies fell close enough to feel the air shift, he did not stray. He kept walking. He didn't stop. He couldn't.

And he didn't look. One thing he had learned well from Toris.

The gunshots made his ears ring, as close by to him as they were, and this time, no more stray bullets; the soldiers had widened the distance between them so as not to nick him as they shot above his shoulders. If he hadn't felt so light-headed, he might have been pleased that they were afraid of angering him. Since he had come with Ivan, he could only be assumed to be the same as Ivan. They didn't want to cross him.

He stalked onward, searching for the break in the trees.

Students. What did they know? Thinking they could ever prepare for this. Not for this army. No one could. History had proven that. They had never stood a chance. He just didn't look down. They fell below the level of his eyesight. He couldn't see them. He kept walking. He was close.

_Look at you._

The gunfire seemed far away as he tried to focus on finding the edge.

Don't look.

The dead leaves under his boots were soft; yielding. He kept walking. Salvation soon.

Don't look.

_Who are you?_

As soon as he made it out of these woods, it would be done. He would have completed his first mission. Successfully. And it would all be worth it. It _had_ to be worth it.

This dusky forest in twilight, the scent of snow and pine, the feel of branches and bark beneath his hands, the damp aroma of fallen leaves, the obstacles in his path, the whispering behind him, the gunshots all around, the trees closing in all around him, the rustling of the breeze moving the branches above, the coldness of the air and the awful clamminess in his palms.

It would be worth it.

Light. The edge was near. He could see it, in the light bursting through the trees, and in the smell of the air. He ran, as fast as he could. The soldiers followed behind, and there were no more students that crossed their paths. Thank god. And when he broke free of the forest, and burst into the field, he could have cried for the relief.

Oh, thank g _od_.

The center. He had reached the center. He'd done it. He'd made it. His side was clear. And just like that, those horrible thoughts and feelings brought on by the dark forest were gone.

The image of _him_ was gone.

As soon as his feet hit the clearing, he broke into a great, breathless smile, feeling somehow as though, by breaking through the forest, he had conquered the Earth itself.

The wind was back.

He placed a quivering hand on his hip, and nearly laughed. Absolute exhilaration. He'd done it, all on his own. Granted, he hadn't used his gun, but that hadn't been his job. His job had just been to lead the soldiers and utilize them in a manner that made the forest impossible to pass through. And he thought, in just that, that he had done a pretty _damn_ good job. For his first time. He'd get better. Once he got the hang of it.

The other soldiers were coming out of the trees, too, up and down, and keeping themselves planted on the forest line, to make sure no one else passed. The forest was clear. He had done it. All on his own.

He reached up to clear his forehead of the sheen of sweat from his sprint, and looked around. Toris and Ivan were not here. He'd finished first. His smile widened in another burst of exhilaration. It had been one thing to finish, but to get here first was a damn amazing thing. Maybe Ivan had led him, somehow or another, into the easiest path. If so, then it was alright. It was only his first time.

He turned around, to the soldier that understood him, and said, "Get back in. Wait inside the trees, in a line. Make sure no one passes."

They did as they were told, and vanished in the trees. The forest was impassible. He had made it that way. Turning back around, he gazed out at the field. Maybe he could go over, and join Ivan. His side was clear. Why not?

He looked around, and saw, for the first time.

Fire.


	32. The Devil's Playground

**Chapter 32**

**The Devil's Playground**

Ashes. Embers.

When Ludwig saw the field, really _saw_ it, when the adrenaline of success faded and the thrill of victory subsided, when every feeling of excitement waned down into a dull throb, when his eyes adjusted, when he _saw_ it, his smile fell as quickly as it had come.

Fire.

The smell of gunpowder, mingled with smoke and snow and pine, and something else. Something sharp. Metallic. Blood.

The field was on fire. And so were the houses.

He didn't know why he walked then, but he did, and he found himself stepping through the high grass, walking towards the fires even as people ran past him to get away. Villagers brushed by him, seeking refuge from the flames.

Hypnotized, he pushed through the weeds, and into the clearing. Dead grass and melting snow beneath his feet. As he walked, he reached up, absently, and removed his cap. As if it were obstructing his view somehow. He stared up at the blue-black sky, as smoke rose up, glowing red by the light of the fire. Embers drifted up and down in the breeze. Stars above. A hazy mist below. He couldn't look away. Mesmerized. Absolutely spellbound.

Sounds came in and out.

He tore his eyes from the sky, and turned them to the houses.

Two soldiers stood off in front of one house, flamethrowers strapped on their backs and lighting up cigarettes as the flames passed from a neighboring building onto the residence. They just stood there, and watched it go up as they talked to each other, smiling every so often at something the other had said.

He looked to the other side.

A small group of students were in a standoff with an equally small group of soldiers. They were shouting at each other, each of them waving their guns threateningly in the air as they tried to get the other to back down. But, like Stalin had once said, it takes a brave man to be a coward in the Red Army, and the soldiers opened fire first, gunning all of the students down before they could even pull their triggers. There was no compromising with this army. No overpowering. No running.

He turned his eyes.

A woman ran into the field, dragging her child by the hand. He lost sight of them as they entered the high grass, towards the forest. Why hadn't they run earlier? Why hadn't the students gotten all of the villagers _out_ , knowing that this would happen as they had? If they had looked hard enough, couldn't they have found a way around the military blocks? Why had they held their ground? In a stupid, naïve attempt to protect their houses? Because they were stubborn? Because the original raid had never come to be on the night it should have, and so they had let down their guard?

Why? Why had they stayed? He didn't understand.

A great blast from the right drew his eyes.

A tank, the gun atop it smoking, was barreling towards a building, where students were on the second level, trying to get in some shots. The gun on the tank had lit up the bottom level with fire. There was no way back down. The students tried to climb out the window. The soldiers in the tank pushed open the hatch, raised themselves up, and opened fire. Some of the students hit the ground before the bullets struck them, and bolted as fast they could.

A soldier with a flamethrower waited. Fire.

Wasn't this overkill? Why so much, for so few? Why?

_Oh_ —

Because he had divided it up this way, back in Ivan's office at home. He had decided on this many men, and this many tanks. _He_ had done this. Him. His decision. So that Ivan would be proud of him.

It had worked.

Where was Ivan?

Why not just shoot them, quick and easy? Why bring the flamethrowers? No one had said anything about flamethrowers. Why? To make a statement? To crush the spirits of other groups? To make it known that in the Soviet Union dissenters would pay the ultimate price?

Ludwig stood there, and just watched as clothes caught fire and desperate kids tried to drop and put out the flames, only to be shot where they fell. Some of them ran off into the other forest, on fire as they were.

Screeching. _Awful_ sounds.

He should have stayed back on his side. This part had not been his job. He should not have come over here. He had done his job. Why strive to do Ivan's, too? Now he was stuck, trapped in this lurid scene by morbid fascination. He couldn't look away. He had never seen anything like it.

And, oh...

He had never wanted to. Too late. He couldn't look away.

He turned to the left.

A student tried to outrun a soldier, who followed her through the brush, shooting. But he missed her, again and again, and she slipped inside of a house in desperation, barring the door and no doubt hiding under a table or inside a closet. She had not escaped; the soldier shot out the lock, and kicked open the door. A shrill cry from within. Gunfire.

Silence.

The soldier walked out. The girl did not. Ivan's orders—no survivors.

Out in front of one tank, a group of soldiers had gathered, their rifles slung over their backs as they laughed to each other, oblivious to the hellfire behind them, having completed their section of houses. Time to relax. They carried on a conversation as though all were right in the world, passing around a cigarette.

Where was Toris? Below the hill, still clearing out the last of the makeshift barricade?

Fire all around. The heat melted the snow and created a muddy patch of earth. Beams fell from the burning houses.

A soldier suddenly came up to Ludwig, holding a lighter in his teeth, and offered him a cigarette. Ludwig looked at him, dumbly, and shook his head. The soldier wandered off. Ludwig could hear him humming. Desensitized. All of them. They had been trained this way.

He had not.

His uniform felt too tight. Hot.

Sounds all around. The whir of tanks, the pops of guns, the chatter of soldiers, the roar of the flames. Something else.

Screaming.

He tried to keep his chin up high, as he walked on without destination. He feet seemed to be leading him in circles. His cap suddenly slipped from his fingers and to the ground. Didn't think to pick it back up.

Gunshots from within the trees that stood on the other side. Tanks.

He started pacing this way and that, in a last ditch attempt to keep his stomach still. He was starting to lose composure.

Awful shrieking. A horrible smell. Fires within the trees and brush on the other end.

Someone caught fire, and when he couldn't put out the flames, he threw himself down in front of a soldier and shouted, pleading and crying. Ludwig didn't understand the screeches above the wind, and he was glad. He got the gist of it though.

_Oh, god, please shoot me, please shoot me, I'm burning, please don't let me burn, shoot me, shoot me, shoot me now, oh god, shoot me_ —

A single shot. The man fell. The only mercy Ludwig had seen today. To be shot quickly instead of being left to burn to death.

His hands were shaking. Trembling. He was trembling. And suddenly he could _feel_ it. It came out of nowhere. It had been so long since he had had one, but he wouldn't ever forget the way it felt. He could forget many things out here, so many things, but not that.

A panic attack.

He tried to fight it. He dug his heels into the muddy ground in a pitiful attempt to stop the tremble. It just got stronger. He shook his head to clear it. The headache intensified.

The trees were swaying to and fro, spurned on by the wind created by the great flames that lurched up above the horizon, swirling and dancing in the darkening skies. Ash floated down. It dusted his shoulders.

A pain in his chest. A horrible rush of fear.

Anxiety.

He looked around, helplessly, as the edges of his vision started blurring. Where was Ivan? Where was Toris? Needed someone, because the attack was coming, and they _scared_ him. The first time he had ever had one had been an exceedingly traumatic event, and he had been _certain_ then, seventeen and otherwise healthy, that he had been dying. He had thought he was having some kind of heart-attack, or a complete nervous breakdown.

He wouldn't ever forget that awful feeling. The way it all came creeping up on him. The way it couldn't be stopped. No stopping it. And he could feel it coming now.

Too cold all of a sudden. Claustrophobia. The air was growing thin. That awful screaming. The smoke turned an already dark evening even darker, and it may as well have been midnight for the way it looked. Lit up only by fire.

Somewhere, he couldn't see where, a baby was crying.

An endless, agonized moaning from within the brush.

The air was ever thinning. Like he was up in space. He started pacing again, relentlessly.

The tanks gleamed in the firelight. The roof of a burning house suddenly collapsed down from above, blocking any possible escapes.

The baby stopped crying.

He reached up to tug irritably at his collar that suddenly felt far too tight, and his cheeks were flushed now with a great rush of heat that went all the way down to his neck. He startled to frantically undo his tie, because it was getting harder to breathe.

Smoke all the way up to the stars. Gunfire, quick and frequent, all around. The sound of the tanks barreling straight over any and all obstacles.

He started sweating, despite the cold air.

The fire was bright. Red. Orange glows all around.

Oh, god.

Oh god, oh no, it was coming up, he could _feel_ it. No, no, no.

Panic.

Embers floating.

He staggered when he shook his head to clear it; dizziness. He breathed far too quickly, as air become harder to find. A sudden rush of nausea. He lost sense of time and place. Static.

_Into this wild abyss the wary fiend_ —

His eyes hurt. His fingers started to tingle at the tips. He turned his gaze back and forth across the vast forest. The movements were blurry. Vague. He felt far away. Distant. Floating into space. His teeth clenched suddenly, in an effort to keep from dissolving into hyperventilation.

Shadows played all around as the flames danced. The wind got stronger.

He couldn't think. Time slowed.

— _Stood on the brink of Hell and looked a while—_

A loud commotion at his side.

He looked over; everything seemed bland, and far away. Hardly any color. Like he was looking through marbled glass.

A young man was fleeing the flames, bullets falling all around his feet, and he ducked and dodged this way and that, crossing the field and running into the trees and winding into the trunks. But he ran into the wrong side of the forest. He ran into Ludwig's side. Ludwig watched, frozen in place, knowing damn well that soldiers were waiting within. He had positioned them there.

Gunshots. A dull, pained groan. A thud.

Silence.

Slower and slower and slower. Time got slower.

His feet were numb. His collar was _suffocating_ him. He tugged at it, only to realize that it was completely unbuttoned, all the way down to below his collarbone.

— _Pondering his voyage; for no narrow frith—_

A strange, strangled noise at his other side.

He looked.

In the threshold of a burning house stood an old woman, her wrinkled hands cupping her face as she screamed, staring up at everything she owned in the world going up in flames. Shrieking. Heart-broken. She tried to go back in, in some foolish attempt to save personal belongings. She was right there. Right there in front of him. He could have gone to her. He tried to move forward, to grab her and pull her back.

But he couldn't move. He couldn't seem to breathe. He could barely see. He stayed still. His feet were stuck in the mud. She went back in, shielding her face with her hands. And he stood there in dumb, dazed stillness, staring at the doorframe for what felt like hours.

Eternity.

She didn't come back out.

He looked back, straight ahead, and felt the tremble growing ever stronger. Cold sweat dripped down his neck.

A sense of horrible, inescapable finality.

Finality.

— _He had to cross._

The river to hell. He had _tried_ to cross. He had given it everything he possessed. Every ounce of it. He tried _so_ hard. But his chest just kept getting tighter and tighter.

A movement close by startled him. He looked around. A whisper, close by.

It took a while for his lethargic mind to comprehend.

The sky was dark.

He looked down. A student had fallen right before him, shot, and was laying there on her back, staring up at him as she attempted to reach up and grab his pant-leg. She was whispering to him. He opened his mouth. She was staring at him.

Nothing came out.

And he stood there, thinking about what to do, but coming up with nothing, and as her fingers tugged at his pants and as she spit up blood, he just _stood_ there. He didn't move. Couldn't find his feet. Their eyes suddenly met. Her eyes were blue, too. They stared at each other. She tried to smile, as though his silence was somehow hopeful. That maybe he would help her. Spare her. Declare her a prisoner, and keep her alive by doing so.

_Help me._

Her teeth were stained red. She had pretty hair. A tug on his pants. She opened her mouth to speak.

_Bang_.

A great burst of thunder.

She lurched upward, gave a great gasp, and fell still. Blood soaked her dirty shirt, and drops of it had splattered on his legs. Her hand fell from his pants.

And immediately, Ludwig looked down at his own hands, terrified that he would see a smoking gun there within them, that maybe he had taken his gun out of its holster and pointed it at her and fired it without even realizing that he was moving at all. He looked down. His hands were empty. But they were shaking.

He looked back up. A familiar face stood there beside of him, placing a gun back into his coat.

A look of worry.

"Hey. Are you alright?"

The words were garbled. Distant. He didn't comprehend. But he knew that voice. Ivan. Ivan had come back. He met Ivan's eyes, and he tried to speak, but it was too late. Too late. The loud gunshot in his ear had done him in. It was coming. Time went from a slow, endless lurch, to a complete halt. Time stopped. And that was it. The beginning of the end.

It started.

He reached up to grab at his collar when all air stopped. He couldn't breathe. He fell backwards onto the ground. The world closed in.

Panic.

No more pills.

He fell back into the dirt, clutching helplessly at the front of his shirt. No air. Nothing. Everything went dark. Fumbling around in an attempt to stand, he only wound up on his knees, fingers gripping mud as he tried in vain to breathe. His lungs were empty. Nothing.

Ivan was on top of him in an instant, those fingers of steel grabbing either wrist and yanking him backwards with fervor.

The panic intensified tenfold.

Oh, _oh g_ od, he'd messed everything up so bad this time, he'd gotten it all wrong, he'd been far too confident, too eager to please, too goddamn stupid, and oh, Ivan was going to be so disappointed. So _angry_. He had let Ivan down. So long now he had taken comfort in Ivan's hands, but not now. Feeling Ivan's hands upon him only made the attack intensify. Because Ivan was going to fuck him over good, he knew it, because Ivan had trusted him with this, Ivan had let him do this all on his own, and he had ruined it. He had done nothing. He had stood there, immobile.

Frozen.

Ivan was going to throttle the life out of him.

In a blind, breathless panic, he tried to flee from Ivan's arms as they wrapped around his chest, in the flight response brought on by the bursts of adrenaline in his veins.

He had to get away.

Ivan held fast. He tried to pull free, but he just couldn't breathe, and everything was getting so far away, and Ivan was too strong. He couldn't escape. He was stuck. Ivan was going to raise up his fist any minute now, he knew it, and strike him across the face and shake him and say, 'What the hell is _wrong_ with you?'

There was nothing he could do about it. Helpless. Overpowered. Overwhelmed.

Sick. No air.

He waited, as time stood still. Darkness creeping steadily into his vision.

Waiting.

But Ivan didn't yank him backwards and toss him into the mud with spite. Ivan didn't whirl him around and strike him across the face to get him to snap out of it. Ivan did not grab his shoulders and shake him. No curses, no slaps, no angry chiding, no foul looks or merciless grips. No disappointed headshake. No sigh of exasperation. No muttered reprimands.

Rather, as his vision started to bleed black and the sounds around him became all the more distant and hollow, there was a warm, very gentle hand upon his back, sliding up and down in slow, soothing motions. Up and down. Strokes of warmth, felt from even beneath the thick fabric of his uniform. Another hand was upon his chest, holding him upright and the only thing keeping him from collapsing down onto the ground. Fingers raising up and digging gingerly under his collar and kneading skin. First his neck, and then his collarbone, and then above his heart. Fluid, circular motions. A nose pressing into his hair. Lips brushing his ear.

No air.

Whooshing in his ears. Blood pounding in his temples. A stinging, aching throb behind his eyes. A strange, unsettling sense of dry-drowning, as he gasped for air and couldn't seem to find any. Would pass out soon, from lack of oxygen.

The hand that was stroking his back suddenly began to thump, as if trying to rid him of a bad cough.

Beyond the clouds of daze and slow-motion, a sound began to break through. Words. A soft, gentle crooning. A familiar voice.

"...alright. Come on, you can do it. Calm down. It's alright."

Ivan's voice. Words of comfort and reassurance.

He gasped for air.

Nothing.

"It's okay. Here, here, I'm here. Come back."

His chest clenched. It wouldn't open.

"Hush. Look up, look up. Look at me."

Hands on his face. A gentle shake. The dark started to fade. He came back from the universe. In the atmosphere, hovering above consciousness.

Cold. A smell of metal.

Ivan's hand came up and ran through his hair, as the other held his head up by his collar.

"Look at me."

He tried, but he couldn't focus. Air still wouldn't come. Couldn't see straight. Unconsciousness hung over him.

He was lowered onto the cold, wet ground. Ivan's hands were on top of his chest, pushing down. Up. Down. Dazed and lost and feeling so far away, like he was watching everything happening as a spectator, he turned his head to the side as Ivan's continued to thump away at his chest.

He was in the mud. Blades of dead winter grass poked up. There beside of him, staring at him, was the student. She didn't move. Her fixed eyes just stared at him.

"Come back."

She was so young. In the wrong place at the wrong time.

"Wake up."

He reached out, with a shaking, pale hand, and groped forward in an attempt to close her eyes. He couldn't reach her.

"Look at _me_."

Ivan had shot her in the chest. It occurred to him, amidst the surreal thoughts and dreaminess, that Ivan always aimed for the heart. He never shot anyone in the head. Always in the heart. A romantic, perhaps, until the very end.

She stared at him. A sharp pain in his chest. He could swear, for a horrible, frightening moment, that her lips moved. A whisper.

_Murderer_.

"Come back."

He'd killed them all, every single one of them, and he could still see those embers drifting around in the sky, the awful smell of blood and gunpowder and a horrible kind of sweetness that was burning flesh, and they had never stood a chance, not from the moment that that marker had been placed in his hands—

_How could you? You're so stupid!_

—and it was too late to change any of it. They were all dead. Dead. The whole tiny little village. They were gone and nothing could bring them back, and oh Christ, there was nothing he could do to wash this blood from his hands, and he had stepped too far into the waters to turn back. He had to cross. He _had_ to. Dark waters. No going back. He couldn't ever go back.

Ivan was waiting on the other side.

Beyond the horrible scents of war, something else. Ivan's cologne. Warm.

Hands on his face.

"Look at me."

_Don't look, don't look, don't look—_

It happened.

The attack released its grip upon his chest, his lungs expanded, and he took his first gasp of air. It hit him hard, and it _hurt_ , at first, to feel the air flowing in after there hadn't been any for so long. He bolted upright at the waist, gulping in air as fast as he could, panting and coughing and shivering, and he fell into another daze when the hyperventilation started.

The end. The hyperventilation was the last phase. If he could ride it out without slipping into unconsciousness...

Just a little more.

That soothing voice kept murmuring away in his ear, like a brook. The dark was receding, as oxygen returned to his deprived body. Hands upon him. Sounds came rushing in with far too much clarity. It hurt his head, and felt terribly surreal, to have control of his hearing long before his vision.

Ivan's whispers were comforting.

He tried to find Ivan's hands, groping blindly, and when he felt them, he grabbed a hold of Ivan's wrists for dear life, gripping as tightly as he could. Ivan's voice got louder, as though he were suddenly encouraged and maybe relieved.

"That's it! There you are!" A strange, almost breathless laugh. A strained voice. "I thought I'd lost you."

The fog started to thin. Time was ever quickening. Things started to sharpen. Focus. Colors bled back in. And then he could see. Really see.

Ivan.

The first thing he saw was Ivan. A beautiful sight. Ivan was staring at him, with that same look of alarm that had been on his face so long ago, when he had taken his temperature and realized how low it was. The same look. Ivan was worried. Eyes wide and brow low and breathing through his mouth, Ivan shook him again, and tried to catch his wandering gaze.

"Look here. Here I am. Come on. Look at me."

He tried to focus.

Finally, he managed to settle, and the feeling of drifting in space subsided. He came back to earth. He saw Ivan. Really saw him. And he knew, then, that Ivan was not angry.

"I'm _sorry_ ," came the immediate whisper, as soon as he found himself really looking back at Ivan and comprehending him, and warm hands grabbed up his face. Ivan looked so alarmed, and so concerned. A regretful mutter. "It was too soon. I brought you out too soon. I should have let you work up to it. I'm sorry, Ludwig."

Sorry? Ivan never said 'Sorry'. Ivan did not make mistakes.

Thumbs ran over his cheeks. Ivan was trying to bring him back from the dark. He was here. Everything was too loud. Too bright.

His head was on fire.

Suddenly, the hands on his face were gone, and Ivan pulled himself up to his feet. And as soon as Ivan had reached down and grabbed him by the arm, yanking him up to his feet, he could feel something else creeping up upon. Mortification. Embarrassment. He had let Ivan down. Again. By losing control of himself.

His chest hurt as Ivan led him along, and the entire time he just stared at the ground, far too ashamed to raise up his eyes and look around. He could have died.

The sound of a door, and then warmth. Ivan shoved him into a soft seat. He finally looked up. Ivan had put him back in the car.

He looked down at himself, and felt his shame intensify; his sleek uniform was completely covered in mud. Stained on the front and back from where he had fallen, caked with earth and clay and grass-stains. Ivan settled in next to him, as he laid back on the seat, and didn't seem concerned by the dirt. Ludwig couldn't meet Ivan's gaze, as bad as he felt, and ducked his head away, closing his eyes.

Ivan leaned down above him, and placed a hand above his heart.

"Can you breathe?"

He nodded, once.

A silence.

Then Ivan's forehead was suddenly pressing into his own, Ludwig squinted his eyes shut, and he could have just _cried_. He was _so_ disappointed in himself.

"I'm sorry, Ludwig. I shouldn't have brought you so soon. I should have known better. You've never been around any of this. You just look so right in the uniform that I forget sometimes that you're really just a civilian. I didn't mean for this to happen. Please don't be angry with me."

Angry? He had no reason to be angry. It should have been Ivan who was angry. He had tried so hard to keep it together. He had failed.

"Wait here. I'll come back."

He looked up when Ivan pulled away, and he could see that Toris had come now too, standing outside the car and looking in with a face full of worry.

Ludwig tried to sit up, saying, weakly, "I can go, too. I can try again."

Ivan's pushed him back down.

"Try what? You did your part. That wasn't anything for you. That was my half. You did everything you were supposed to do."

Maybe so, but he shouldn't have just stood there, inert in the field. He should have taken action. He should have striven to prove himself. He had broken down. He had let Ivan down, maybe not by failing his mission, but by letting his nerves fail in an environment that had still been hostile.

"Let me go with you."

Ivan only shook his head, look stern and sharp, and Ludwig knew it was time to be quiet.

Ivan turned his head, and called, "Toris!"

Toris straightened up in attention.

"Finish up here."

"Yes."

"Make sure everything's done. Take the left. I'll go right."

"Yes."

The warmth of Ivan was gone, as he pulled himself out of the car. A last look at Ludwig. "Try to sleep. I'll be back soon. It's almost done." And with that, Ivan left, disappearing back into the misty smoke.

Toris lingered. Another voice floating into his ears.

"Ludwig? Hey."

He looked up, blearily. Toris was leaning in, one knee resting down on the seat as he hovered over Ludwig with attentive eyes.

"Hey. You feelin' alright?"

He nodded.

Toris didn't exactly seem sold, and reached out, brushing fingers in his disheveled hair, and then resting his hand upon Ludwig's forehead.

"...you're freezing. Sure you're alright? Can you breathe okay?"

"I'm alright," he said, and his voice felt weak and rough and tired.

Irritated.

Toris just shook his head to himself, and muttered, "You should never have come out here."

He was tired. He wanted to go to sleep.

Barely comprehending Toris' words as the exhaustion came upon him like a wave, he could only reach up and grab a fistful of Toris' sleeve, whispering, weakly, "I was so sure that I could do it. I thought I could do it. I choked."

"Don't worry about it," Toris said, a bit sternly, as he ran his hand across Ludwig's forehead to clear it of the cold sweat. "You did your part. You shoulda stayed out there by the trees where you were _supposed_ to, you idiot. Why did you come out? You would have been fine if you had stayed where you were supposed to. Why can't you ever listen? Ah, hell. Well. It's too late, I guess."

Ludwig felt himself smiling, as he looked up at Toris from behind the veil.

"I tried to be like you," he murmured, blearily, and he could see Toris' look of surprise.

"Like me?"

He nodded.

"You're brave, you know. I tried to stand out there, like I saw you doing. I thought I could jump in, like you do. I try so hard to be like you. But I just..."

Toris shook his head. A deep whisper.

"You don't wanna be like me, Ludwig."

He did, though, but was too damn tired to talk more about it, and shut his eyes.

A sigh above him, and Toris patted the side of Ludwig's head, gently, letting his palm linger there in what could have very well been hard Toris' version of hugging, and there was another low whisper that reached Ludwig right before he fell into unconsciousness. Fingers, suddenly running through his hair.

"What do you know, you big oaf? Please don't ever be like me. I like Ludwig. I want you to stay Ludwig. I... I would rather be like you."

With that, Toris suddenly bolted out of the car, as if embarrassed, and Ludwig laid his head down, and went straight out.

But even as he slept...

He could still smell it. Hear it. See it. Fire. Ash and embers in the air. He felt himself kicking restlessly in sleep. Trying to get away from that girl, who stared at him from the ground.

Space and time were lost.

He was vaguely aware of the roaring of tanks, as they started moving again.

He could have slept so much longer, but there were suddenly hands upon him, and he was lifted up and repositioned. For a minute, he was too tired to open his eyes. The car lurched. The tires cut through the mud.

He came back to himself a while later, and when he finally opened his eyes, there was no more fire. Just darkness, and Ivan beside of him. He was held up in Ivan's arms. No more screaming. Just silence, and the feeling of Ivan's chest rising and falling as he breathed.

The car was back on the road. They were going back to the station. Other cars were behind them on the road. Headlights shone through the night. The ride back was eerily quiet. Or maybe it was as noisy as the ride there had been, only that he was too dumb and dazed to hear any outside commotions.

Breathing hurt. His chest ached.

"Awake?"

He nodded, wearily, and sat up straight. The movement hurt.

"Good."

Ivan leaned in to him, and finally chided him a little. But it wasn't for what he expected.

Arm around his shoulders pulling him in, Ivan looked over with a very stern brow and said, lowly, "Why didn't you tell me, huh?"

Ludwig could only look up, dazed and far too comfortable in Ivan's arms.

"Tell you about what?"

Ivan shook him a little. "About _what_ —about that! Why didn't you tell me you got... How do you say it?"

Oh, right. How embarrassing.

"Panic attacks."

A stern look.

"If you had told me, I would have gone about this all differently."

Feeling a little mortified and a little defensive, Ludwig managed to grumble, "It hasn't happened in a long time."

Ivan's voice turned sharp. Dangerous.

"I wasn't asking for excuses. I didn't ask when you had the last one. I asked why you didn't tell me. You should have told me."

There it was. That old anxiety. Just a second of hearing Ivan speak in _that_ voice was enough to make him feel like he was up in _that_ room all over again. The darkness of some closet.

"...sorry."

He sat there, hands folded in his lap and staring down as his heart started speeding up, and there was a short silence in which he could hear, with painful clarity, the slamming of a door in the distance. Damn. He always messed something up, one way or another.

Ivan was quiet, brooding, brow furrowed and lips pursed as he stared ahead, no doubt rethinking the entire thing and wondering what he could have done differently.

Finally, Ludwig found his voice, and said, again, "Sorry. I should have said something."

Ivan glanced over at him, arms crossed above his chest.

"Anything else I should know about? Hm? Heart problems? Anemia? Bad ankles?"

Bad ankles?

He looked over, dumbly. Ivan's brow had come up, and his lips were twitching. The anger was gone.

'Sorry' was such a good way to prevent disasters. A good survival skill.

Ludwig couldn't help it, as Ivan started to smile; he laughed. Despite it all. Maybe it should have horrified him, above all else, that was still able to _laugh_ after the atrocities he had just witnessed. But somehow...

Now that he was out of the grip of the attack, it didn't really bother him so much. Bad things happened sometimes. The world wasn't right. It never would be. It wasn't _his_ fault.

Ivan seemed to be put off guard a little by his laughter, a little alarmed maybe, and pulled him into a complete embrace.

"I was really worried about you."

With that, with the comfort of Ivan and the continual assuaging of his guilt, Ludwig felt better.

"Don't be," he said, and he really meant it.

Outside, the fields were giving way to houses, stacked up on hills and built with cheap materials, one on top of the other, old and dilapidated and falling apart. But at least they weren't on fire.

Kyiv was back.

No one here even knew what had happened out there.

Maybe they saw the smoke rising up against the night sky, but they couldn't have known exactly what had caused it. No one would ever know that he had had something to do with that. Maybe out here, no one really even cared. Maybe they saw this kind of thing so frequently that it just didn't bother them anymore. Desensitized. Not just the soldiers.

He wondered if he'd be that way too, after seeing it so many times. He had choked this time, but already, away from the scene, he was able to push it all from his mind. The next time would be a little easier, and then the time after that, and the time after that. And then one time it would happen, and he wouldn't even flinch.

Like Toris.

The lights of Kyiv hazed out the stars above, and the smoke of the tiny village was no longer visible. That was for the best. Like it never happened.

They pulled to a stop, in front of the train station. Everything was loud. Even this late. As soon as they stepped out, back into the cold air, Ivan came around and grabbed him by the sleeve, a bundle under his other arm. Where had that come from?

"Come here."

He was tugged along, back towards the end of the station, and shoved rather unceremoniously into what might have been a bathroom.

"Here," Ivan said, as he shoved the bundle into his arm, "Go change. You can't walk around here like that. People will wonder."

He looked down at himself, and remembered that his uniform was covered in mud from where he had collapsed. Dots of blood on his pants.

"Right."

He fell back into a stall, and shed his dirty uniform with a sense of great relief. The clothes Ivan had given him were familiar. The uniform he'd worn back at the ball. That standard color of olive. A field uniform. Well, it may not have been as glossy, but at least it was clean. And when he pulled it on, it was like nothing had ever happened.

He came out, the dirty uniform folded neatly under his arm, and when he looked at himself in the mirror, he was surprised, more than anything else. He had expected to look pale, wan, tired and scared and maybe exhausted. But he didn't. He looked fine.

Just fine.

No one would ever have looked at him and guessed that he had just been struggling for breath in the middle of a panic attack only hours earlier. No circles under his eyes. Still pale, but no longer wan. He just looked ready to go.

His hair was a little dirty, though.

He reached down and turned on the faucet above the sink, and bent over, sticking his head beneath the cold water and dousing it completely, washing it free of the dirt as best he could. The freezing water was a little refreshing, after all of it. He was already feeling better. By tomorrow, this whole thing would be a memory.

Turning the water off, he shook his wet hair and straightened back up, wiping off his face with his sleeve. When he looked in the mirror again, when he smoothed back his damp hair, he looked even better than he felt. He looked fine. Time to go. All business again.

Life went on.

No one stopped for these kinds of things. He just had to stop worrying so much about it all. He couldn't change anything that happened. He didn't understand why he had to try and justify it so frequently, why he had to keep saying it over and over and over again, why he had to try so hard to convince himself. What good would worrying about it do? It wouldn't undo anything that had been done. It wasn't his fault. He had just done what he was told. Following orders.

Ha. Someone had told him once, 'the worst crimes in the history of humanity were committed by men who were just following orders.'

_What's your name?_

Well, whoever it had been obviously didn't understand the way the world worked. Once you were in the chain of command, what else could you do? Orders were orders. A job. People just tried to do their jobs. Not the fault of a single person. It was just the way the world was.

A knock on the door.

"Ready?"

He started out of his stillness, finished fixing his hair, and went to the door. When he opened it, Ivan was leaning there in the frame, looking a little tired. The day was catching up with him.

"Ready?" he asked again, as he looked up and down, and Ludwig nodded. "You look nice in that color," Ivan added, as they stepped back out into the station, and Ludwig only shrugged a shoulder.

"I like the other one better."

"I guessed so."

They waited on the platform, and then the doors opened. They stepped on, and walked through the nearly empty passage. Back on the train. The compartment door slid shut, Ivan settled down beside of him, and it was like every other time.

Almost.

This was the first time riding a train after very nearly living up to that word that was so often whispered to him at night.

Murderer.

He hadn't pulled the trigger this time. Maybe next time.

When the train started moving, beginning its journey back to Moscow, Ivan looked over at him, and said, quietly, "I spoke to the men you led."

He only managed a very cool, "Oh?"

Even though his veins were hammering with adrenaline.

But his fears of being belittled did not come to be, and Ivan's silvery voice was all pride when he continued, "They said you were an honor to follow."

His heart soared. Just what he needed to hear.

Ivan's smile turned into a leer.

"They did say that they were a little scared of you, though, because you walked off into the bullets and didn't try to take cover. They say you stayed right up front. They called you a crazy son of a bitch."

That had been shock and daze. Not bravery and fearlessness. But, hell. Ivan didn't need to know that. Assuming that he didn't already. So he stayed silent, and just scoffed as he turned his eyes to the window.

Ivan's next words made it all worth it. All of it.

"I'm proud of you."

All he had wanted.

He kept his face turned towards the window so Ivan would not see his smile. The pain in his chest, the awful experience of a panic attack, the blood on his pants. Worth it.

An arm was over his shoulder.

"Go to sleep. We'll be there before you know it."

He obeyed, as Ivan rested his head down upon his shoulder and was out like a light. He followed not long after.

He passed in and out of sleep as the train lurched.

By the time Moscow was approaching again, in the pale light of the next morning, the clenching in his chest was gone. He felt better. The panic attack was a mere memory.

And with clear breathing and a clear head came a thought that made him furrow his brow and glance over at Ivan halfheartedly.

Twice now, that he was unable to keep composure when Ivan had given him a chance to do so. He hadn't been able to shoot Pavlov. He hadn't been able to endure the burning field. Once had been bad enough. Twice was too much.

No words that Ivan gave would erase the mortification of knowing he had been seen in such a vulnerable state.

When the train pulled in, Ivan woke up and turned to him, arm still around his shoulder and eyes heavy, and asked, with a gentle shake, "What do you want to do? Should we just go straight home, or do you want to spend the night and leave tomorrow? How do you feel?"

A lurch of disappointment.

"I thought we were staying two weeks?"

Ivan shifted a bit, and turned to him a concerned eye.

"I don't want you getting sick."

Damn. He wasn't ready to go.

"I'm okay," he said, maybe too quickly, and the immediate question was obvious. "Do we _have_ to go?"

Ivan raised a brow, seemed in thought, and then he exhaled a very heavy sigh, slumped in the seat, long legs splayed out in front of him, and buried his face in his hands. A muffled mutter in Russian.

Ludwig waited.

A humorless laugh, and Ivan's palms lowered just enough to uncover his eyes as he looked over at Ludwig. A long, tired stare, and then Ivan sighed again and rubbed at his eyes, saying, gruffly, "Oh, alright. I guess we can stay for a little while. I should have known that you'd want to look around a little. Pfft—why can't I say no to a pretty face?"

Ludwig smiled, and with that rush of adoration in his chest, the night was entirely forgotten.

The train stopped. Like before, Ivan slid the screen, and ushered him through. Outside, chaos. Masses.

When they stepped out of the train, Ludwig straightened up and tidied his uniform without being told to, and when they started walking through the crowd, Ivan leaned in to him and whispered, "You know, I didn't notice it earlier. That uniform's starting to get a little tight. I think it's time for a new one."

He looked down, and could see that maybe Ivan was right. The buttons across the chest were a little stressed. Ivan seemed pleased.

"I guess I should have fed you a little less, until we got back."

Narrowing his eyes a little, as he kept his chin up and tried to intimidate passersby, Ludwig muttered back, "Are you trying to say I'm getting fat?"

"Not at all," Ivan said, primly.

"Good."

Ivan was just teasing him, to keep him from thinking too much about last night.

A fresh start. He would try again tomorrow.

It was a mark, perhaps, of the darkness of this land that he could ever put such sights behind him. Or maybe that was the darkness within himself. Things he had never known were there at all.

Ivan had said so, hadn't he?

_We're the same, you and I._

The same.

The crowds parted for them as best they could, and the streets were drawing near. They had nearly reached the end of the station when it happened.

A burst of silver in the pale sun.

Like a beacon.

Ludwig turned, instinctively, but there was only the massive crowd that poured into the train station, so many people, and no matter how hard he looked, he could not see that silver glow again against the drab backdrop. He looked over this way and that. A horrible feeling within his chest. An odd exhilaration. He felt himself popping up on his toes as he scanned the vast crowds. His heart was racing all of a sudden, and he didn't know _why_. He didn't know why he was looking, and he didn't know for what.

His eyes were wide, he was breathing through his mouth, all senses suddenly heightened. As if that old survival instinct had kicked back into high gear and was trying to drive him towards something.

His veins coursed with the fire of adrenaline, and suddenly he could swear that he saw _something_ out there in that endless crowd, something familiar and comforting, something he had lost long ago, and suddenly everything was hazy, and his chest ached.

Another burst of silver, and above the loud voices, an even louder one.

Oh—

A rush of absolute elation that he had not felt in so long. He couldn't place it. Suddenly, he was sick with adrenaline. He felt himself take a step back towards the crowd. Something was drawing him in. An invisible hand, trying to drag him back.

But suddenly a voice cut through the haze.

"What's wrong?"

He looked over his shoulder, to see Ivan leaning in, looking concerned.

"You feel alright?"

He broke Ivan's gaze, as excited as he felt, and turned his eyes back to the crowd. He didn't understand why. He just knew there was something here that he should look for. He didn't know what. A siren's call. Enough to take his attention from Ivan as he tried once more to step into the crowd.

Ivan tugged him back.

"Let's go."

Go? No, no, no, no, he couldn't _go_ , there was something _here_ , he knew it, something that his mind told him to go looking for.

But Ivan was strong, and he fell back.

"Hey, what's wrong?" Ivan reached out and grabbed his chin, and forced him to look up. "What?"

Ludwig shook his head, as best he could for Ivan's iron grip, and breathed, "I thought I saw something."

Ivan's brow lowered in concern. "What did you see?"

Ivan's other hand came up and fell on his forehead. As if he was sick. No. He wasn't _sick_. He tried to break free of Ivan, too elated and breathless to feel fear, trying so hard to walk off into the crowd and after that voice. Ivan just wouldn't let him go, wrenching him still.

"Are you seeing things?"

...what? Seeing things? He opened his mouth, and found no answer. Because, well...

He had seen things before, hadn't he?

That relentless racing of his heart and sudden adrenaline _did_ make him feel slightly ill, and suddenly there was a cold sweat on his forehead, and maybe he _was_ just seeing things. Just hallucinating again. He had before. Maybe he was now. That silver flash was probably all in his head. That something. Maybe it wasn't real.

But oh Christ in heaven, something inside was screeching at him to turn around and look. Just look. He tried, he did, but he couldn't, for Ivan's grip.

Suddenly, Ivan's hand swept back his bangs, and he said, worriedly, "Maybe we should go home. I'm worried about you."

And those words somehow cut through the rush.

Ivan's eyes raised up, and he scanned the crowd.

"What did you see? There's nothing there. Do you want to go home?"

Home?

Damn. He felt sick. He couldn't go home. He had promised himself that he would redeem his failure. Couldn't go home yet, not yet.

He shook his head, and tried to smile.

"No, I'm fine. It's alright. Let's just go."

Ivan's grip released.

And even though his heart ached, Ludwig forced himself to walk on. No matter how much the voice inside begged and begged, he couldn't turn around. He was just seeing things. It wasn't real. Just a false alarm. So why did it still hurt so much, to not be able to go back and seek that which was calling him?

He could swear that he had seen something.

In the end, obedience won out. Despite the nagging tug, despite the voice screeching in his mind, despite the strange feeling in his chest and the awful aching in his heart, he obeyed. He did not turn his head. Why bother? Ivan had said so :

Nothing there.

The station ended, and they stepped into the street. He lingered there, at the entrance.

Oh. God.

He _longed_ to turn.

_Don't look, don't look, don't look_ _—_

He didn't. He raised his chin, and took a step. There were no more bursts of light. He walked on.

He didn't look back.

Nothing there

* * *

The worst days of his life.

Endless fog. Hopelessness. No light. Just darkness.

So many days driving in the middle of nowhere, staying on the road for only a few hours and spending the rest huddled up in a cold car and praying, _praying_ that no one would find them.

Dismal thoughts.

When Gilbert had sat there in the car, head rested against the glass and moping, and had looked up and seen the first buildings of Moscow, he had taken a hand and covered his mouth to stifle the awful rise of nausea. The city he feared, more than anything else on earth. He had go into the heart of it.

Eduard had looked over at him, then, and tried to smile.

'You okay?'

He shook his head, and looked in the backseat.

Ludwig had sat there, hands folded neatly in his lap as he stared at Gilbert with an alarmingly intense gaze.

Ludwig had smiled. ' _Almost there_!'

Gilbert had turned back around, took a great breath, and forced his hands steady. Moscow just got closer and closer. And yet somehow, Ludwig didn't _feel_ any closer.

The first day in Moscow had been a complete waste of time, as he had roamed irritably through the streets, not even knowing what he was looking for. Eduard had humored him, and walked at his side even though he must have thought that Gilbert was insane.

Nothing.

The second day, he had dragged Eduard into libraries and public records buildings, forcing him to sift through years and years for anything at all.

Nothing.

The third day, sick of sleeping in the car, Eduard had found a cheap motel, and Gilbert had spent the day inside, curled on the bed and crying as Ludwig had sat there beside of him, chiding him for being so hard-headed.

He still hadn't told Eduard who he was looking for. Eduard had to have been frustrated, but didn't show it.

The fourth day, he had wandered the streets again, hoping in some stupid way that he would just bump into Ludwig on the street. Stupid. Childish. It hadn't happened.

Nothing.

The fifth day began with a bad start.

He had so many nightmares. When he woke up, Ludwig was gone. Where had he gone? He had set out in a foul mood, a quiet Eduard walking dutifully beside of him. Today, he had decided to go into the train station. It had worked once before.

But now, as he stood here...

He felt overwhelmed. Lost. Such a huge station, people all around, and yet he felt so damn alone. He didn't know what to do. He didn't know who to ask or what to ask or how. Eduard followed behind him as he stalked this way and that, pushing through the crowd and looking over people and feeling so helpless.

He wanted to cry again.

The morning dragged on. There was nothing. He just wanted to see Ludwig. In foolish desperation, he started passing by every line of passengers getting on and off trains, as if by some miracle Ludwig would be one of them. He never was.

Eduard stood there, hands in his pockets, and looked agitated. Exasperated. Tired. Irritable. Angry.

"When are you gonna knock it off and ask for help?"

Gilbert sent him a halfhearted glare, and ignored him. He was so scared of telling Eduard who he was looking for, and why. Eduard might run.

He searched the station for hours. Hours. Miserable hours.

Nothing.

Eduard didn't say another word, and let him do as he pleased.

He roamed, restlessly. Endlessly. The same thing, over and over and over again. Ludwig just wasn't here. He had finally fallen to a complete halt, exhausted and tired and so disheartened, and he had turned to Eduard, ready to call it quits for another day. He just couldn't take anymore of this. He wanted it all to be over.

It just dragged on.

He opened his mouth, and meant to speak. But something distracted him.

A light.

A feeling of familiarity as a group of passengers passed.

He thought he saw, in the lights of the station, a gleam of pale hair catching fire. He stopped in his tracks, and felt a horrible rush of _something_ that nearly knocked him right off his feet. He whirled around, and tried to see it again.

Reaching out with both arms, Gilbert tried to shove his way through the crowd, trying in desperation to find that which he had lost. He straightened up and tried to look above them, but he couldn't find it. He just saw mothers and children, old men and old women, young girls gawking and giggling at Soviet soldiers that passed, fathers holding babies in their arms.

Everyone and no one.

On no, it _had_ to be here. He had _seen_ it, he could swear to g _od_ he had. He had seen Ludwig's hair, lit up bright in the light. He had felt it, in his heart and in his mind. He had seen Ludwig. Somewhere. He knew it. He swore it.

He had lost him.

He raised himself up and cried, over the crowd, "Hey! Ludwig! Are you there?"

Had seen him, he knew it. He turned and tried to push through on the left, and then on the right, and then back again, wandering in circles and jumping up on his toes and trying to _see_. He couldn't. He couldn't see anything.

He couldn't see Ludwig.

He tried not to burst into tears, and searched the crowd in the same circle. An endless loop of misery. No one there. Nothing. _Oh_ , he could have died for the way he felt. He could have lied down on the pavement and just _died_. Because it was gone. That sudden hope. That light.

Gone.

He searched for an hour. Nothing. Finally, he was forced to admit defeat. And it was the most horrible feeling he had ever known, because he had _felt_ it. He had _felt_ Ludwig. He could swear that he had been _so_ close...

So close. He had felt it.

He could have sworn—oh god he could have _sworn_ —that he had seen a flash of brilliant white, that familiar old gleam of pale sunlight breaking through Ludwig's hair, lighting up the horrid grey gloom of Moscow like a beacon of salvation.

There was nothing. No matter where he turned his head or how many times he popped up on his toes, he just couldn't catch that spark again.

Nothing.

It hurt to admit. Ludwig wasn't here. He had missed something, somewhere. There was no Ludwig here. For an awful moment, he fell to a halt before a train that was pulling in, and he thought about running forward and jumping in front of it. He thought about it. But a sudden hand on his arm prevented whatever his delirious mind might have done.

He looked back, dumbly.

Not Ludwig. Eduard. He had had enough of this.

"Well," Eduard finally began, and his eyes were locked onto Gilbert's with an intensity that was almost expectant, "It's been long enough! I'm _tired_ of this. Are you ready to tell me who you're looking for? If not, I'm gone. If you won't tell me, then why would I stay?"

Gilbert shifted, reluctantly. He did not want to say that name. What if Eduard fled? Ludwig was gone. Where had Ludwig gone? Ludwig was _gone_. He didn't want Eduard to go, too. He didn't want to be alone. Not here.

Not out here.

"You can't do this alone," Eduard stated, firmly, and Gilbert knew it was true. " _Tell_ me. You need me. You can't go on alone. You can't."

God in heaven, what could he do? What choice did he have? He couldn't go on alone. He had neither the strength nor the courage. The will. He couldn't. He would die, either of incompetence or by doing it himself.

He couldn't.

He had to say it. No choice.

Finally, he braced himself and clenched his fists at his sides, turning back to watch the train, and when he found himself, he whispered so softly and so lowly that he would be surprised if Eduard could even hear him at all. But he didn't dare raise his voice, because _that name_ could not be spoken aloud, for fear it might summon the devil himself.

"Braginsky," he finally managed, "Ivan Braginsky."

Silence.

He looked back.

A passing of something _awful_ over Eduard's face, and even for the freezing air Gilbert could see the breaking of a cold sweat upon his brow.

That name. He should have known.

Eduard finally moved, after a stunned moment, tucking his hands suddenly in his pockets, and Gilbert knew that it was only to hide their tremble, and then he laughed, weakly. Humorlessly.

"Well!" he said, voice so pale and thin it was barely audible, and Gilbert felt a squirm of unease. "Is that it, then?"

"Yeah," he responded, and Eduard caught his eye again. "That's it."

Darkness.

Eduard looked on the verge of fainting, and yet still he smiled, as though trying to be brave. He imagined that Eduard felt much like he did. Hopeless. Scared. Lost. Overwhelmed. On the edge of the cliff, staring down into the dark sea.

There was a long, strange silence.

And then Eduard looked up at the ceiling of the station, shielding his eyes from the bright lights with his hand.

"Ha."

A strange whisper.

"Well. Never thought I'd hear _that_ name again."


	33. Frozen Rain

**Chapter 33**

**Frozen Rain**

"So. Tell me about your brother."

The first words Eduard had said to him after leaving the train station, as they had lied there in the dirty little hotel beds. Sleet fell outside. The constant lights of the city shone in through the thin curtains.

The air was cold.

Gilbert laid back, hands folded behind his head, and Eduard sat cross-legged on the other bed, staring over at him from behind his glasses with friendly eyes.

Ludwig sat down on the floor between the beds, resting up against the end-table and legs straight out before him as he hummed to himself, fingers drumming the carpet quite merrily. Gilbert looked down at him every so often, and Ludwig would just look back up at him, and smile.

_'How's it goin', Gilbert?'_

His heart hurt.

That glint of light and the burst of exhilaration had long since gone. The ache in his chest remained. They had just sat in miserable silence, until Eduard had finally tried to engage him a little.

"So. Tell me about your brother."

Efforts at making conversation.

Those words woke him up, for the first time in so long, and Gilbert was sure he was smiling.

When he looked down between the beds, Ludwig was a little kid again, awkward and gangly, legs crossed and eyes bright as he gawked up at Gilbert with a smile.

"His name's Ludwig."

Eduard smiled, a little, and let him speak as he would.

Oh. It felt so good to actually think about something _nice_. To remember Ludwig, and actually speak about him. To try and let someone else know how _happy_ Ludwig had made him.

"He's still a kid, ya know. Just twenty-three. He's tall. Smart. He's so smart."

A kid—was Ludwig really still a kid? Seemed like yesterday he had given Ludwig his name. Guess to him, Ludwig would always be a kid, his little brother.

Eduard cast him a weary smile, and asked, "Blond and blue-eyed?"

Gilbert glanced at him with a quirked brow.

"How'd you know?"

Eduard shrugged a shoulder.

"Just a hunch."

Strange. One would have looked at Gilbert, fuckin' albino that he was, and wouldn't have instantly assumed his brother would be any different. A very observant hunch.

Gilbert shrugged off Eduard's odd tone, and carried on. When he started talking about Ludwig, it was hard to stop.

"Yeah, he's blond. His eyes are so pretty. That was the first thing I ever noticed about him." He felt his chest puffing in pride suddenly, as he added, "I named him, you know!"

Eduard's smile perked up a little.

"Oh, yeah?"

Gilbert rolled over onto his side, head propped up in his hand, and he knew that Eduard must have seen the way his teeth had come out from behind his smile, the way his eyes were suddenly crinkling, the way his brow was higher than usual, the way his face suddenly felt so much less tense.

The way Ludwig made him feel.

It must have been obvious, after this past week of nothing but depression.

"When you see him the first time, he looks kinda scary, you know, cause he's tall, and his voice is so deep. But when you talk to him, if you actually give him time and get to know him, he's just... He's such a sweet kid. Sometimes I can't even believe I raised someone so fuckin' _nice_. He's the opposite of everything I was. He's _so_ nice. He'd do anything for anyone. He's a good kid. You'll like him. I know you will, when you meet him."

He was so absorbed in the memory of Ludwig, in that image inside of his head, that he didn't even notice the steady falling of Eduard's face. How sad he looked, suddenly.

"You raised him, huh? What happened to your parents?"

"They died. It was always just me and Ludwig."

When he spoke about Ludwig, in whatever instance or whomever to, it never really crossed him mind to mention that they weren't _real_ brothers, because it had never once mattered to either one of them.

"You two must be close."

Close. That wasn't even the right word. There wasn't any way he could have ever described the way he truly felt about Ludwig. It wasn't anything that anyone else might have been able to understand. Beyond brotherhood. He couldn't explain it, but tried to anyway.

"It's like... When he's gone, it feels like I'm gone, too, you know? Like if you went outside all of a sudden and saw that the sun was gone. When Ludwig's gone, I don't even feel like doing anything. I can't even figure out why I bother. If I can't find him out here, then I don't— I can't live after, if I can't find him. The only time I was ever happy was when he was around."

He probably sounded stupid.

Eduard stared at him, and then gave a scoff, and reached over into his bag. When he spoke, his voice was a little thick.

"Ah, hell. You wanna drink?"

Eduard pulled his hand out, and a bottle of vodka came with it.

Drink. Oh, god. Did he _ever_. He couldn't—he'd promised Ludwig. If he had one, just one, the whole damn spiral would start again, and he'd keep goin' down. He'd never find Ludwig.

All the same, he didn't trust himself enough to open his mouth, so he just shook his head.

"Do you mind if I do?"

He shook his head again.

Below, Ludwig's humming had stopped, and he looked up at Gilbert from the floor, very much an adult again, whispering, ' _Keep it up, Gilbert. As long as you can. You promised._ '

He couldn't answer Ludwig with Eduard wide-awake, so he smiled at Ludwig instead, and rolled onto his back so that the sight of Eduard drinking wouldn't get too tempting.

They were quiet again, for an hour or two, as Eduard hammered back glass after glass with surprising skill, and when half the bottle was gone, he looked over at Gilbert again, and yet still seemed perfectly lucid. His voice held no slur when he spoke.

"You alright over there? You're awfully quiet."

It seemed like people out here had more vodka running through their veins than blood.

Gilbert stared up at the shadows that played across the ceiling, and muttered, "I'm fine."

He glanced down; Ludwig was gone.

Feeling a bit of panic, he looked around, hands tangling in the blanket, and was relieved to find Ludwig at his side on the bed, splayed out and looking quite content. They stared at each other, Ludwig's eyes bright in the dingy hotel room, and Gilbert found that no matter how many years passed, no matter how many times they had looked at each other, Ludwig still had the uncanny ability to take his breath away.

Strands of Ludwig's hair had come loose and fallen into his eyes. He'd've cut off his damn foot, then, if someone had asked him to, if he were only allowed to reach out and put them back in place.

Couldn't.

Eduard was still for a while, and then asked, suddenly, "What will you do if you can't get him back? If you don't mind me askin'."

Without hesitation, Gilbert said, honestly, "I'd jump in front of a train."

He almost had already.

Finally, Eduard cast him a rather sad look, and said, "You know that's it going to be a while before we get there, don't you? It's not like you're gonna spend a few days in Moscow and then suddenly find him in the streets and you get to go home. Where we gotta go...it's a long way."

He had had a feeling, but he had tried to be optimistic. How pointless—optimism broke the world.

Still, he asked, "How long?"

"Months."

It hurt to hear, and Eduard saw his dour look.

"Sorry, I really am, but you gotta understand how things work out here. We can go ahead and leave Moscow, sure, but we won't get too far. Out there, where we need to go, the roads are only useable for a few months. The ice and snow, you know. Once it starts melting, we'll be able to start out. We can't take the train. Driving is...well, it's pretty goddamn scary, but that's our only choice. I think we'll be able to start out in a month or two, but it might take another month to get there, depending on the journey. Maybe more. Once we're out there, there's no turning back. If we get lost, once, we're dead. If we start out in April, it might not be 'til July when we get there. And he goes out so much anyway that they might not even be there, if we make it. It's all luck."

Luck.

Luck had never been on his side.

"Why can't we just take the train?"

Eduard suddenly looked about as miserable as Gilbert felt.

"I'm scared," he finally admitted. "I keep thinkin'... What if he finds out while we're there? Where can we run, if we're stuck in place like that? If he sends someone out after us, how are we gonna get away if the only place we have to go is to the back of the cart? I'm too scared to take the train. At least in a car, we can try to run, if he catches us. He's been watching you, this whole time. He'll be looking for you."

He.

Gilbert knew who _he_ was.

Blearily, he looked over.

Ludwig was sleeping.

* * *

Moscow, whatever else could be said about it, had a very vibrant nightlife. Loud and bright. As many people crowded the streets at midnight as they did at noon. Never quiet.

Going back to the hotel that first night, after the fires had burned, had been unpleasant.

Not for the reasons he might have once expected.

Ivan stripped down and made a run for the bathroom, and Ludwig had grabbed up the bundle that Ivan had set aside. When the sound of the shower running came through the door, he had rolled out the glossy, silvery-blue uniform that Ivan had given him, and stared at the drops of blood on the pant-legs.

Dried, now.

_Help me._

As Ivan showered, Ludwig went to the sink, turned on the water, grabbed some soap, and tried to clean it out. Not because of the memory of the girl, as she had lurched up and spat blood, but because he liked that uniform.

He realized it _irritated_ him more than it horrified him. Fuckin' uniform had been perfect the day before. Look at it now. Mud, blood, and ash.

Maybe it was still the agitation of everything, it could have been the way his chest was a little sore, or it could have been that glint of something he thought he had seen. Whatever it was, it was steadily befouling his mood.

He rinsed the pants, frowned, washed them again, and could feel the frustration mounting. Couldn't seem to get rid of it.

Blood-pressure rising. His head hurt.

A half-hour of relentless lathering, and still the stains remained. When Ivan came in, still damp and red-faced and messy, pressing up behind him and kissing the back of his neck, Ludwig was too damn frustrated to even acknowledge him.

Couldn't bleach it—that'd ruin it worse. What could he do?

Finally, Ivan spoke up, and asked, amicably, "What's the matter?"

A long silence. Frustration.

"I can't get the stains out."

Ivan pulled back, looked down at the uniform, and just said, simply, "Ah. Forget it. It's ruined. I'll get you another one."

That didn't seem to make the agitation go away. He kept on scrubbing, and he could feel Ivan's lips twisting into a smile against his neck.

"Mad?"

He nodded his head, brow scrunched and lips pursed. Because he realized that he _was_ —actually, he was pretty goddamn furious. She had _bled_ on him. On _him_. Bleeding on him was like bleeding on Ivan, and nobody bled on Ivan.

The audacity was exceedingly close to mind-blowing.

"What do you wanna do about it?" Ivan finally asked, lips warm on his ear, and the words came out of his mouth before he could really even think about it.

Hands ran up and down his back.

His answer was short, clipped, and honest :

"Hurt someone."

He had never once in his life lifted up his head and thought to himself, 'I need to hurt someone to feel better.' He did now, and he didn't know where that feeling had come from or why. It was there all the same.

Ivan smiled, and raked teeth down his neck.

"So," he finally said, "Let's go hurt someone."

That was how they had wound up in the foul Moscow streets, Ludwig smothered in Ivan's giant coat and Ivan back in his uniform, seemingly unfazed by the sleet that was battering the sidewalk.

The city was very much awake.

It did occur to Ludwig, at times, that his entire life went more smoothly when he kept his big mouth shut, but, on the other hand, he had been seeking a way to redeem himself. Hurting someone was probably the only way to do so. Still. A bit precipitous, on his part.

Well. Yeah, but why not plunge forward? That burst of light in the train station had only been in his mind. Nothing more. The only person on the face of the earth who even cared that he was alive was Ivan. Ludwig could hurt someone, for him.

He roamed the streets with Ivan, who kept him close to his side and scoured the streets for who knew what.

Looking for trouble.

No one could ever know what was whirring through Ivan's mind, but Ludwig was well-aware of the focus in his eyes, and the quick reflexes every time he turned his head. Observing. Ivan had been regretful about taking him out into that field so soon, and was no doubt looking for something 'easy' to break him in. He and Ivan had very different ideas of what was easy.

The twists and turns came and went, and when the buildings became less well-tended, when the crowds started looking a little shadier, Ludwig realized that Ivan was leading him into the bad side of town. Oh, they'd find trouble here, alright.

A few minutes of walking, as Ludwig kept straight as a board and looked around every so often to make sure there wasn't any danger, and a firm hand on his arm startled him. A jerk to the side had him nearly tumbling. Ivan had suddenly dragged him into a dark, dirty alley.

Stagnant water on the pavement.

His pounding heart slowed down when he realized that Ivan hadn't found something for him to do, and instead seemed to be seeking a personal moment.

...coulda picked a better place, though.

Cold water dripped down from the roofs above.

"Here," Ivan suddenly said, as he pulled him close. "I have something for you."

Coolness in his palm. He looked down, pulse racing, and tilted his head.

A wallet.

"Open it," Ivan prodded, and he did so without thought.

The smile was immediate.

His new I.D., staring out at him from behind a fold of plastic. His Russian driver's license, military credentials. Ivan had told him they were tucked safely away in that dresser back home, but here they were. Nothing in the world could have ever been as entrancing as seeing his face there, underneath Russian letters. His name.

Normal men carried all of these items around with them. He hadn't ever been normal.

An exhilarating sensation.

Ivan had no doubt had this one in his back pocket, so to speak, and had waited for the right time. Maybe if Ivan had given it to him the day before, he might have been able to keep it together in the burning field. He could have flipped it open, when his collar got too tight, and remembered that he couldn't choke because he was a soldier.

"I put some money in there, too," Ivan added, as Ludwig tucked the wallet safely in his pocket.

He didn't care about money—never had.

"Have I showed you the money yet? I don't know how much Marks are now, I gotta—"

The identification was all that mattered, and when everything was straight, he reached up, took Ivan's face in his gloved hands, promptly interrupting whatever the hell he was saying, and kissed him upon the lips. Fingers gripped his waist.

Not an appropriate thing, perhaps, for two uniformed officers to be clenching each other in some dirty alley in the middle of Moscow, in a land where no one was expected to be abnormal, but Ivan was hardly afraid of society. If anyone had noticed them in passing, then no one dared to acknowledge it, and when they stepped back out into the street, all was well.

With every step Ludwig took, with every corner they rounded, his uncertainty waned.

Even if he didn't do what Ivan wanted tonight, then it wouldn't matter. He might spend the night in the closet, but in the morning Ivan would still love him. He might go crazy at night, but when Ivan opened the door the world would make sense again. It was more frightening somehow, the thought that he would let Ivan down than it was to imagine the door slamming shut.

The streets grew dingier.

It never once crossed Ludwig's mind that, the farther they walked, he had steadily overtaken Ivan's pace and was walking ahead of him. Maybe some part of him was as eager to find trouble as Ivan was.

Sometimes, he felt strange.

The sleet that fell around them was hardly bothersome. Ivan's shoulders were soaked, but he looked quite content. At the end of every corner, Ludwig looked back, caught Ivan's eye, and they smiled at each other. He wanted to impress.

The sidewalk was slick.

They walked in silence, passing so many people and so many doors, and yet nothing. Ludwig was starting to let down his guard.

Too soon.

Ivan suddenly spat out something in Russian, and Ludwig turned his head in time to see two drunken girls come stumbling out of the door of a shop, drinks in hand. They staggered on the ice, and nearly crashed into Ivan, which might have been a death sentence, but at the last second they turned, sloshing their drinks. They may not have bumped into Ivan, but they spilled their drinks on Ludwig.

Anger.

He reached out, without thought, and grabbed the arm of the girl that had splashed him. Fur coat. Big hair. Kinda pretty. Not as pretty as that woman he had once known. From what flashes he could remember, at least; picturing her face in detail had become impossible.

The woman opened her mouth and started to curse him, at least until she caught the glint of the gun in his belt, and then her bleary eyes widened and she looked him up and down, comprehending the uniforms and the stature of the men she had crashed into. More importantly, the precarious situation she had found herself in.

Silence.

She stared up at him, terrified and pale, and he could tell by her tense expression that his grip was hurting her, even though her intoxication. Ivan stood back, silently, and just watched. He had wanted to hurt someone. The anger was still there, pushed down into the pit of his stomach. That odd feeling of aggression. He couldn't say why he choked again, and even though he could have slapped her across the face or startled her with the gun, he just gave a tighter squeeze of her arm, a warning, and then let her go.

He let her go.

She wasted no time in running off, grabbing her friend by the arm.

Ivan lifted up his chin in contemplation, and then just started smiling again. Didn't look disappointed. That was good. Didn't look so excited, though, either.

Why had he let her go? The most obvious explanation was a rather simple one. That she was, in the end, a woman. Just a woman. When he had said he wanted to hurt someone, he hadn't exactly had a woman in mind. Ivan started walking again, and Ludwig had to speed up to match his pace. He was so busy berating himself in his head ( _why_ had he let her go?) that he didn't even notice when Ivan had stopped. He should've scared her more.

Ivan's hand was on his arm again, forcing him back, and he felt himself being pulled to the side.

"There's a bar. Let's go."

—what?

The instant those words had fallen from his lips, Ludwig knew; Ivan had no intention of letting him get back to that hotel room until he did as he had so foolishly spoken of.

Hurt someone.

Ivan probably would have burnt Moscow to the ground to avoid stepping into some ratty bar on a normal day, and now he couldn't drag Ludwig inside fast enough.

The second the shoddy door was pushed open, the smell of smoke and beer was damn near overwhelming. Neon lights flickering overhead. Loud voices and louder music. Shifty people. He felt out of place. When they walked in, the chatter died down for a moment, and people turned to stare at them in surprise. Given the crowd that was in here, two well-dressed military men must have been a rather unusual sight. A good few of them shuffled to the door, after they went for a table, and made stealthy escapes. The people in here were surely dangerous and most of them were likely criminals, yet still, the second they saw Ivan, they cleared out.

Ivan had that effect.

A path was made for them as they walked, and if Ludwig hadn't been so nervous he might have enjoyed the fact that people were scared of them.

Even in the middle of this horrific place, Ivan still pulled out a chair for him. It took a long time for any of the workers to gather the courage to come over, and when they finally did, they were trying very hard to keep their eyes low and smiles polite. Out here, people seemed to fear their army rather than worship it. Ludwig saw no reason to change that up, and kept his posture straight and his face stern.

The bar was a strange experience. The last time he'd been in a bar (felt like a thousand damn years ago) _that man_ had tried to push him in a corner and drug him. He hadn't ever had pleasant feelings about bars and clubs.

Still, when Ivan ordered him drink after drink, he took them.

Ivan stared at him the whole time they sat there, smiling every so often when Ludwig crinkled his nose at an unpleasant waft of smoke. When he felt so inclined, Ivan would reach over and place a hand above Ludwig's elbow, smiling away, but Ludwig could see that his eyes were always just above Ludwig's head, scanning the room constantly for something. Any kind of situation that he could turn into an opportunity.

All Ludwig could do was sit there and wait for Ivan to start a ruckus.

The hour ticked by without event. Ivan's constant vigil for mayhem was interrupted only when he stopped to plow through another glass.

With every passing minute, Ludwig felt himself relaxing a little more. It wasn't too bad in here. He could get used to this, as he got used to everything else. After a few drinks, after settling in with the dim lighting and the rather exciting air, the thought had suddenly crossed his mind to stand up, grab Ivan's arm, and pull Ivan into a dark corner. To be the one who instigated, for once. To be the one who was constantly in Ivan's mind.

He glanced over, trying to gauge Ivan's mood, remembered how irritable Moscow made Ivan and that Ivan was only here so that he could incite Ludwig into a brawl, and thought better of it.

Ah, hell. Not the right time. Feeling a bit agitated, he took another glass, and put it back. Maybe next time.

Finally, Ivan looked over at him, and spoke.

"You could have at least hit her."

He had known that this would come up before the night ended. A gentle chiding.

Ludwig looked down at his drink, feeling a bit abashed, and muttered, weakly, "It was a girl."

"So what?" Ivan asked, with a quirked brow of curiosity. "What, you can't hit girls or something?"

Ludwig shook his head. Couldn't remember who had taught him that, though.

_'Etiquette, politeness, and poise are the backbones of society, and chivalry should always be kept alive—'_

Ivan saw his silence and reluctance, and just gave a smile.

"You can hit girls, you know. They're just like everyone else."

Ludwig glanced over at him, seeing the very sure look on Ivan's face, and if he had been feeling a little more dangerous, he might have asked, 'Well, then why don't you ever hit Irina?' Hadn't hit Natalia, either, come to think. Sure had shot that girl, though, and that woman in the blue dress. Nameless. Irina was too real to Ivan. Natalia was too frightening. They didn't count, perhaps, as 'everyone else'.

Neither did he.

"You know what your problem is, don't you?" Ivan suddenly threw out, and Ludwig could feel the sharpening of his eyes as he looked up.

Bristling.

He didn't know why, but for a moment, he wanted to snip, angrily, 'I don't _have_ a problem.'

Such an answer would likely have earned him a trip into the nearest closet (or hospital), and so he just bit his tongue, sent Ivan as close to a glower as he dared, and stayed silent. He wanted Ivan to admire him, not think him weak.

Ivan actually didn't seem to mind his foul look, and just smiled all the wider.

"Your problem," Ivan began, in a silky voice, "is that _you_ still think there are rules."

A hand reached out and grabbed his chin, firmly.

Ivan's voice and eyes were stern as he said, lowly, "Look at where you are. There aren't any rules out here, except for the ones _I_ make. If you can't figure out whether you should do something or not, you ask _me_. Don't think about if you can. Just do it. You do what _I_ tell you, not what anyone else does. Rules don't apply to you anymore." The grip loosened a bit, and Ivan raised his fingers to brush them down Ludwig's cheek, fearlessly. "Once you figure that out, you'll be unstoppable, you know?"

Unstoppable.

Like Ivan. Ivan was what he aspired to be. To be even half as confident as Ivan was. To trust himself, to figure it all out. Unstoppable was a rather enthralling prospect. To truly belong in this world that Ivan had given him.

How did Ivan have a way of taking everything that confused him and making it suddenly so clear? Ivan could make sense of every garbled thing up in his head. Things he couldn't even grasp, Ivan could set down in front of him and link together.

Ivan gave his cheek a pat, reached down to take another drink, and resumed his scour of the room. Ludwig leaned forward, elbows on the table and face flushed, and kept playing that word over and over in head.

Unstoppable.

Another hour passed. People came and went. Shadows danced, as the lights flickered. Outside, the sleet was still strong. Ludwig zoned out for a while, contemplating Ivan's words.

A world with no rules. How strange. His entire life had been lived abiding by every rule that had ever been set in front of him. Someone had told him once that rules were meant to be broken, and that had seemed rather like insanity. Breaking rules? Not _him_. In this case, however... Well, if there _weren't_ any rules, then he couldn't very well break them, could he?

No rules.

He thought he felt something brush against him, as his mind wandered.

A laugh made him glance up. Ivan looked up from his glass, cheeks red and hair coming loose, sent Ludwig a long, scorching look, and gave a lopsided smile.

"Missing something?" he uttered, and Ludwig started up a bit at his words, dizzy and disoriented.

It took a minute to understand.

Dumbly, he looked around, eyes squinted, and then looked back up at Ivan rather helplessly.

Missing?

"Your wallet," Ivan elaborated, quite easily. "Didn't you feel him take it?"

A flush of adrenaline woke him up from his tipsy stupor, and he pushed himself out far enough from the table to give himself room to pat down every pocket. Nothing. He couldn't find his wallet, no matter how many times he put his hands in his pockets. Missing, alright.

Somehow, it hit him hard. For a moment, it was as if the world had been sucked into a black hole.

Maybe it was the alcohol that tripped the wire in his head, or maybe it was everything that he had pushed down since he had come out here in Moscow. Maybe it was the lingering light of flames behind his eyelids. Maybe it was the fact that _that man_ had crossed his mind in the forest. Maybe it was that godawful gleam of light that had led to nothing in the station.

Maybe it was just something that had always been there within him, but that had needed Ivan to come out.

Whatever it was that had done him in in that second, it did a damn good job.

Silence. Hardly any air. Time stopped.

The stillness that came when the water was being sucked back into the ocean. The beach stood bare. No wind. The lights in the bar seemed to dim. A distant roaring of gathering waves.

The tsunami came crashing forward soon after, washing away every bit of himself.

The anger that blazed up within him then took him by surprise. Fury, actually. Had he ever been so angry in his entire life? He hadn't ever known that being so angry was possible, not for someone like him. Acid. The closest thing to the biblical wrath that consumed the world in wars. Not that someone had dared to take something that belonged to him necessarily, but that someone had dared to take something that Ivan had given him. That someone had dared to attempt to take that license, when he had never had one before.

Within that wallet lied his very identity. Someone hadn't stolen his wallet; they had stolen his name.

He felt himself gripping the edge of the table to push the chair all the way back, the scraping of legs on the floor, and he leapt up, feet splayed and eyes wide as he searched the room. He didn't know what he was looking for, but, by god, when he found the son of a bitch—

A hand on his arm.

"He's outside already. Come on."

He didn't even wait for Ivan to lead him, bolting so furiously to the door that Ivan was nearly left behind. It was only because he didn't know who the hell he was looking for that he was forced to stop in the street, stalking back and forth furiously on the slick sidewalk.

Rage.

His fists had clenched so tightly that his nails would have cut into his palms if he hadn't had gloves on.

Ivan finally saddled up next to him, looked around a bit unsteadily, and started walking. Ludwig followed him. They turned a corner, passed a few alleys, until Ivan stopped suddenly, like a dog that had caught a scent, and turned his pale eyes towards a dark side-street on the opposite side of the road.

He inclined his head.

"In there."

Ludwig was so goddamn angry that he didn't even stop to really think about it, set his shoulders and feet square, and marched across the street. Didn't even look both ways—he assumed cars would stop, because no one would dare to actually run him over. Maybe that was true, because he made it across the way with no incident, and found himself bathed in darkness as he plunged into the alley.

That wallet was his. He'd bust down every door in this shithole to get it back. He'd tear the city apart, to get that license.

He hadn't lifted his hand the day before to stop a single atrocity that he had witnessed, but he sure was lifting it now. To be fair, they all seemed considerably less atrocious now that someone had picked his pocket. The massacre of the students seemed less horrifying than the fact that someone had dared to snatch what was his.

If he had suddenly been given the choice between saving that girl or saving his wallet, he'd have picked the wallet in a heartbeat. Didn't even know her name, and she had ruined his fuckin' uniform anyway. Nobody cared about anybody. He was tired of giving effort to those who made none for him. He just wanted his damn wallet back. His name. He valued an object over a life, and that realization didn't make him feel all that terrible, because, in the end, objects lasted longer than people did.

Who was he?

He reached the end of the alley in time to see a figure scaling a chain-link fence. Honestly, he was surprised at the reflexes that took over him, and he was surprised more at the fact that he hadn't been afraid when he leapt forward to grab a handful of shirt and yank the man back down.

He was in a foreign country, stuck in some godawful city whose language he couldn't even speak, out of his element and pretending to be something he was not, yet still he wasn't afraid when he tossed that man down onto the ground, straight into a pile of garbage. He was too fuckin' angry to be frightened. Or he was so frightened that he was angry. Honestly, he couldn't tell the damn difference. Sometimes they felt exactly the same.

In the darkness, he looked down at the man on the ground, and took him in. A young man, his age no doubt, lean and rather scraggly, and when he looked back at Ludwig, the terror was as evident upon his face as it had been on that girl's. She had gotten off easy—this man would not.

He felt his hand flying down, felt his fingers fumbling with the clasp on the holster, felt a weight within his hand, and when he saw the glint of the gun in the dim light, it didn't startle him.

The man clenched his hands on the bags of garbage, mouth open as he gasped for breath, and Ludwig saw him suddenly jump a little at the sight of the gun, and yank his hands in to start fumbling within his coat. Frantic, muttered words in Russian.

He wasn't even worried that the man was looking for his own gun; if no one would ever dare to shoot Ivan, then they wouldn't shoot him, either. The man finally pulled a wallet from his coat—Ludwig's wallet—and held it forward, hair drenched in the sleet and very clearly pleading. He lifted the wallet in the air, up and down, clearly trying to say, 'Take it! Take it!'

A long silence.

Ludwig found himself standing still, staring down from above the barrel of the gun. They were both trembling, although one in anger and the other in fear.

The only sound then was the sleet hitting the roofs above.

Ivan was next to him suddenly, appearing like a phantom as the gun shook in his hand, but there were no words of encouragement. Ivan didn't open his mouth to speak, and was content to keep his wrist still and see where the whole thing went.

The only voices in the alley were the ones up in Ludwig's head.

The man's eyes had gotten so wide that it was possible they could have popped out of his head. He was shaking as much as the gun was, knowing that his fate was very uncertain. Regretting, no doubt, that he hadn't taken someone else's wallet instead.

So angry. He was so angry. The acid was throbbing in his veins. The trigger was firm beneath his finger.

No rules.

Ludwig wasn't _dumb_. His head had been fuzzy as hell lately, everything had been misty, but he wasn't _stupid_. He knew what was really going on. Ivan had given him a wallet because he had known all along that Ludwig, as inexperienced and awkward as he looked, was a sitting duck for a pickpocket, and he knew that Ivan had been sitting there in that bar, waiting the entire time for this to happen. Ivan manipulated the chain of cause and effect as he saw fit. Ivan crushed the butterfly in one street and the breeze from his foot coming down caused the typhoon in the other.

He _knew_ it.

And he realized all the same that he didn't give a shit, whether Ivan had set him up or not—that fuckin' wallet was _his_. That license within it was his. That identity was his. No one touched it. No one.

No rules.

And this time, after all of it...

After all of the nudging and prodding, after all of the persuasion, after running through dark forests, after coming face to face with armed students, after being very nearly shot, after all of that, somehow it was this man before him—this unarmed, terrified, frozen man—that finally made him pull the trigger. Because this man had held within his hand something that belonged to Ludwig.

No rules—

An explosion.

A thick silence, and then a shriek of pain. It took him a moment to realize. He looked down at his hand, and this time, there _was_ a smoking gun within it. This time, he had taken the gun and aimed it. This time, he had pulled the trigger. Blood on the pavement. But he hadn't aimed for the chest, not like Ivan did. The blood was coming from the man's foot.

The wallet fell to the ground.

Christ, the sound of the discharge was still echoing in his ears, and he struggled to hear Ivan when he finally spoke.

Ivan turned to look at him, and asked, quite simply, "Are you going to kill him?"

The man had started crying, pleading in Russian and clasping his hands as he begged.

Kill him. ...huh.

Blood pooled out beneath him.

The whispers in his head were running rampant. Driving him crazy. Arguing with each other. Why couldn't they ever agree? That pain-in-the-ass voice in the back of his head that called itself 'reason' was fighting with a new voice.

Wrath.

"No," he finally said, with a tilted head, and he wasn't really sure why he smiled then. "Start with the feet. That was what you said." Placing the hammer back on the gun, he tucked it into his belt, jerking his head to the side as he said to the man, "Go on, get outta here."

Didn't need to be told twice.

The man pulled himself up, grabbed the brick wall for support, and started hobbling along. Ludwig let the man stagger away, watching him disappear into the side streets. Ivan watched, too, and when he looked at Ludwig again, the smile was bright.

"You remembered."

"Of course."

He had done then what Ivan had set him out to do. Because that had hurt, alright. Hurting, but not killing. In the end, the voice of reason had prevailed. Getting _so_ much weaker, though.

He felt better, afterwards, as much as he had felt better after beating the hell out of the mouthy officer back in Lensk. The more he thought about it, though, the more he regretted not shooting the other foot. That audacity had earned at least two bullets. Ah, well. Too late.

He reached down, picked up the wallet, tucked it into his pocket, and pulled off his cap to smooth back his hair. Too much trouble. Ivan staggered, suddenly, and nearly fell into the pile of trash the man had previously occupied, until Ludwig grabbed his arm. Cans from the trash rolled across the asphalt. This was too much trouble, too.

"You drank too much," Ludwig said, and Ivan just gave a laugh and staggered again, this time hitting the wall.

"No such thing!"

It became increasingly apparent that Ivan was succumbing to the alcohol. What had he been drinking in the bar? A hell of a lot stronger than the normal stuff, apparently.

He grabbed Ivan to keep him steady, slinging Ivan's arm around his shoulders, and together they stumbled out of the alley.

Ludwig squinted his eyes against the sleet and wind, and looked around.

"Remember the way back?" came the quiet slur at his side, and Ludwig stood there for a moment, Ivan's heavy arm behind his neck, and shielded his eyes to look up at the buildings.

The street lamps lit up the falling sleet blue and grey. Puddles rippled in headlights.

He didn't know the way back, not really, but if he walked around long enough he was pretty sure he'd take notice of the hotel. It was really the only one worth looking at, so it stood out quite a bit. If nothing else, he could just walk around until Ivan sobered up enough to lead them back.

So, he nodded his head, dug his heels into the ground, and hauled Ivan upright with a grunt. Heavy as hell, deadweight that he was, but somehow Ludwig managed to start carting him along. It was a good damn thing this hadn't occurred months earlier; he wouldn't have been able to lift up Ivan's leg, let alone all of him. He was stronger now. Gettin' there. Soon, he'd probably be healthier here than he had been back _there_.

Ivan's clumsy feet dragged along the pavement. Every so often, he stepped on Ludwig's toes, and it was worth the dull ache in his foot when Ivan turned to him, kissed his cheek, and muttered, "Sorry!"

Sorry. Ivan could croon it with the best of them, but whether or not he could actually _feel_ sorry was up in the air.

All the same...

Ludwig glanced at him, from time to time, as Ivan's bangs were coming loose from beneath his cap, and it occurred to him that Ivan was exceedingly beautiful. One of the most visually pleasing things he had ever seen in his life. Maybe to some people Ivan wouldn't have been all that attractive, but as far as Ludwig was concerned, it was perfection walking at his side. Hadn't been obvious at first, sure, but being lost in the dark had a way of taking something plain and making it astounding when the light came back.

Hard to focus on any war crime, when the war criminal was so goddamn handsome.

Walking and walking.

A thought struck him, as he sloshed through the wet streets, and he asked, "Did you pay back there?"

A low scoff.

"Pay? Pay! Remember what I said? You don't have any rules out here."

Oh. Right. Hard to adjust to a place with no rules.

They trudged along, Ludwig looking up every so often to try and figure out where the hell they were, and every time he thought he was getting close, it was only to round a corner and realize that he wasn't where he should have been. Ivan was so _heavy_. The going was slow.

People glanced at them as they passed, and maybe it was a little less than disciplined, for two soldiers of the Red Army to be wandering through street sludge, uniforms wet and disheveled, one drunk and the other not too far from it. If Ivan hadn't been a general, more than a few questions might have been asked by the army if they ever found out.

... _way_ more than a few.

So many secrets.

Ivan's fantasy world seeped into the real one, and Ludwig's footsteps echoed there just as loudly as Ivan's did.

Ivan had made him someone.


	34. Another Warm Body

**Chapter 34**

**Another Warm Body**

Slow going.

Dragging a tank like Ivan was hardly an easy task, but Ludwig did his best.

He was kinda lost, though, and maybe Ludwig was going in circles as the sleet ever fell.

As they stumbled down a street that Ludwig was suddenly sure he had already walked once, he stopped and furrowed his brow as he glanced about, and a passing couple sent them a long look. The man looked over at them, his girl on his arm, and muttered something under his breath, and when Ivan raised up bleary eyes and turned his head to spit something back, Ludwig could feel his brow furrowing ever lower. And not because he was lost.

The irritation surged back up. He didn't know what had been said, but he knew that tone of voice.

Maybe that tsunami hadn't crashed all the way, because a second wave was starting to build.

He stopped where he was, stood the drunken Ivan carefully up against the wall of the nearest building, and turned around. The couple had already carried on. Not fast enough.

An insult to Ivan was an insult to the entire world he lived in. _God_ —didn't anyone understand that this world was all he had? Ivan was everything. Everything. He'd given all he had to Ivan. Ivan meant everything. Hearing someone back-talk Ivan was like having shards of glass grinding together in his chest. He couldn't get rid of the anger, no matter how hard he tried. Something was _wrong_ with him, he was sure of it then. Fuckin' whispering in his head wouldn't go away.

Agitation.

He stalked up behind them, his footsteps hidden by the sound of the sleet, clenched his fist, and cuffed the man on the back of his head as he walked.

A sucker-punch, maybe. He'd sucker-punched before, several times, because that was what _that man_ had taught him to do. There weren't any rules of etiquette out here that he had to abide by, anyway, and according to Ivan there weren't any rules at all, so the son of a bitch should have counted his blessings that a low blow to the back of the head was all that he received.

Could have been a bullet.

He'd already pulled the trigger once.

The man whirled around, shouting angrily in Russian, and Ludwig wasted no time in shoving him backwards. He fell, slipping on the sleet, and Ludwig would have hit him again, maybe, if the woman hadn't started screaming at him. He shoved her, too, but she didn't fall, and it was her irritating screeching in his ears that finally got him to back off. Couldn't leave Ivan alone for too long. He might fall over.

The man pulled himself up quickly and was dragged back by his girlfriend. Wisely, he went with her, thinking better of getting into a fight with two soldiers, drunk or not. It took a bit of restraint to keep himself from going after them, as they cursed at him over their shoulders, and he only stomped his foot and cursed back at them.

The altercation was quick, yet it seemed significant in his mind. That man hadn't done anything to Ludwig, but Ludwig had hit him anyway. Never in his life had he raised his fist with no reason. No matter how much he tried to pinpoint it, he couldn't figure out why he was so _mad_. He couldn't grasp it. He had never been like this. At least, not that he could remember. Maybe he was so angry because he had to actually sit there and _think_ to remember who he was.

Who was he?

Nothing he had done tonight had felt like something he would do. No thought that had crossed his mind had been familiar to him. This anger was unfamiliar.

He couldn't _remember_.

_Who are you?_

When the couple had been run off, Ludwig stomped back over to Ivan, heaved a rather huffy breath, and hauled him back upright. His head was killing him. He tried to carry on as if nothing had happened. Ivan was leering at him, though, and made it hard to do so.

"Did you understand what he said?" Ivan asked, the vodka heavy on his breath.

Well...

"No."

"Then why'd you hit him?"

Ludwig lifted up his chin, pursed his lips and furrowed his brow, and snapped, irritably, "I didn't like the tone."

Oh, _god,_ who was he? He couldn't think. His name. What was his fuckin' name? Who _was_ he?

He wanted to cry all of a sudden.

Ivan smiled, sloppily, and muttered then, "You're startin' to sound like me."

Light.

The irritability vanished, as randomly as it had come.

Being compared, in any way, any insignificant way, to Ivan was like finding foothold on the first cloud that led up to heaven. If he couldn't remember who he was, then he could at least cling to Ivan, and try to impose Ivan's identity onto himself. At least until he remembered.

Ivan laughed, suddenly, a rather high-pitched cackle, and when he spoke, his voice was breathless.

"All he said was, 'Soldiers should know better than to get so drunk.'"

Oh. Well.

All the same, Ludwig gave a 'hmph', and said, "I don't care what he said. Like I said, I didn't like the tone."

Ivan stopped moving for a second, turned his head until their noses bumped, and his smile was strong when he whispered, suddenly, "I love you."

Words like that meant everything. Ivan was the only man whose life he valued anymore.

He returned the smile, feeling so bleary all of a sudden, and replied, "I know."

Because he did know. Ivan loved him. He had no doubt of that. When he was angry, when he couldn't remember, when he couldn't _think_ , then all Ivan had to do was look at him, speak to him, and Ludwig realized that nothing mattered. Ivan loved him, no matter who he was.

Unconditional.

If he were more like Ivan, then he wouldn't have any more doubts about who he was, either.

That was why that wallet was so important, too. Every time he opened it, he could see himself there and remember. The name might have been a little different than what he had once had, at least half of it, but the photo was still of himself. If it was his photo, then it was his name.

A while later, he finally caught sight of the hotel amongst the shoddy buildings, and started the trek towards it. He was exhausted, mentally and physically, by the time he reached the door, and he set Ivan down in the elevator as it went up just to catch a quick breather. Ivan, legs splayed on the floor, leaned up against the wall and grabbed the railing above his head, smiling the whole while at who knew what.

Soft, drunken laughing.

Ludwig looked down at him, at red-faced Ivan grinning away and looking so _happy_ , and knew that he would have done anything for that man. Anything.

The elevator jolted and stopped, and it took nearly more strength than he had left to pick the big guy up again and get him down the hall. Ivan kept burrowing his face in Ludwig's hair, whispering in his ear with crooning words in Russian, and the door couldn't come soon enough.

He was tired.

Tired, yeah. He was tired as hell. But not out for the count.

The second that the hotel door shut, he found that he couldn't help himself; he whirled around, pushed the tipsy Ivan against the wall, and kissed him for the second time that night. All that excitement had riled him up. Hurting someone. From the way that Ivan was steady enough to suddenly grab his waist and flip them around so that it was Ludwig against the wall, he couldn't help but wonder if he had been had again. If Ivan had stumbled around on purpose. Teeth sank into his neck, and suddenly it really didn't matter anymore.

He felt himself pulling his gloves off.

Ivan's hands clenched the fabric of the coat as he tried tugging it off, and Ludwig wasn't sure why he threw his arms around Ivan's neck, and whispered urgently, "Tell me my name."

He couldn't bear another minute of being so unsure of who he was or why he was or what his goddamn name was.

Ivan won his battle with the coat and tossed it aside, and pressed his lips against the side of his head as he said, gently, "Ludwig."

Lyudovik.

The mists cleared, he _remembered_ , and all was right again. He loved the way Ivan said his name. _His_ name.

Ivan's gloves joined his own. Hats fell afterward. When Ivan pulled back and attempted to reach down and unbutton Ludwig's shirt, he succeeded only in stumbling onto his backside on the floor. Guess he hadn't been fakin' after all. Bolstered by the sound of his name and far too warm to just let Ivan go to sleep on the floor, Ludwig reached down, pulled off his boots and then Ivan's, then grabbed Ivan by the collar, and tried to drag him back up. He at least wanted to make it to the damn bed.

Ivan's fingers were warm and calloused as they gripped his wrists.

Somehow, someway, he managed to drag Ivan over and up to the bed. He got his wish, alright—like before, it might have been precipitous, for when Ivan staggered over far enough and shoved him forcefully back onto the mattress, he made no effort to crawl away, as he once had, and yet he found himself unable to move.

Uncertainty. Flashes of voices.

Ivan flopped down onto the foot of the bed and dragged himself up. Whispering. His shirt was ripped open and yanked off in a blink. A shiver down his back. Rough hands fumbling in his belt. Shadows, creeping in the corners. No rules. Ivan's broad chest pressed his own down.

His name was Ludwig.

Ludwig.

The scent of Ivan's damp hair, the mingling of cologne and the smell of the uniform, sweat and vodka.

He was who Ivan told him he was.

"I'm proud of you," came the slur in his ear, and the frightful immobility vanished.

Love. Ivan was proud of him.

He found his hands at last, reached up to grip them in Ivan's hair, and engaged. He had wanted to drag Ivan into a corner in the bar; this was hardly any different. Ivan hadn't pulled out his gun yet and pressed it into his forehead, and even if he had, Ludwig was so _certain_ that Ivan wouldn't hurt him that it might not have scared him anyway.

Ivan wouldn't hurt him.

The shadows crept closer. Ivan's arms braced as he held himself up, muscle firm and taut when Ludwig grabbed his shoulders. The hair on Ivan's chest poked out from the collar of his wet shirt, half-way unbuttoned, and Ludwig couldn't really remember when his hands had helped Ivan out of it altogether.

Ice, clinking against the glass of the window.

The world might have gone on like normal outside, but something earth-shattering was happening in his head. The wire in his mind was being tripped again, pulled by something he couldn't see, and when it finally clicked, when the line was crossed, it was like someone had punched him in the chest.

A great inhale, a lurch of his pulse, and it was he who took Ivan's belt within his fists and pulled him down farther. It was he who unclasped the belt and fumbled with the button and pulled down the zipper, and it was he who got the pants down to Ivan's knees. It was he who dug his fingers into the band of Ivan's boxers and yanked them down.

A very foreign sensation, the friction between them, as Ivan pressed against him.

Ludwig couldn't have ever put it into words, but he was fairly certain then, as Ivan grabbed his thighs and lifted them up, that the wire had been more than tripped. It had been cut clean in two. Gone. Maybe the shadows in the corner had dragged him in, because he felt different. He would have said that he didn't feel like himself anymore, but hell—he didn't even know who the fuck he _was_. He wouldn't know anymore if he was different. He'd probably be different tomorrow, too.

And the day after.

Whoever had brought the wire-cutter had cut the blue one instead of the red one, because his sanity felt very much like it had been snapped back like a rubberband. That thought made him laugh a little, and if Ivan thought it strange then he certainly didn't say anything, and was quite happy to kick his pants off of his ankle and be rid of them.

Heat.

Ivan's arms held up his weight as he tried to keep his balance, his intoxication keeping him uncertain as to whether he wanted to pull Ludwig up or let himself fall down. Ludwig couldn't really tell him what to do, because he didn't _know_ what to do, and he had faith that Ivan would eventually get his clumsy hands working and figure it out.

He did. Like always.

Somehow, he got Ludwig's legs up high enough without tottering backwards altogether, and he muttered away under his breath in Russian as he raised a hand to his mouth and spit within it. The hand was quick to fly back down, Ivan pushed all of his weight forward suddenly, and Ludwig could feel Ivan's legs paddling around like a damn cat as he tried to get in position.

Pressure.

Ivan pushed forward, rather briskly, and Ludwig clenched Ivan's shoulders and buried his face, squinting his eyes and strangling his cry at the last second. Come to think, maybe not a cry. Might have been a laugh.

He felt kind of crazy.

Stillness, as Ivan hung his head down and seemed to be either gathering himself or giving Ludwig a second to adjust, and, God, when he finally started moving, it was like a knife in his back. Perhaps in a literal sense.

It hurt more than he had thought it would. Nothing unbearable, and nothing he was gonna lie there and cry about. He wondered if Ivan's intoxication was a factor, or maybe Ivan was trying to be gentle with him. He had seen Toris' busted arm; if Ivan had even half a mind to, he could have _really_ hurt him. Ivan could have beat him within an inch of his life and left the bed so covered in blood that the maid would think there had been a murder. Ivan could have twisted his arm and snapped it as easily as he had Toris'.

He didn't.

Ivan's exceedingly dangerous hands lied quite placid, one on the bed and one gripping a leg to keep steady, and if Ivan was hurting him now then it was not intentional, and it was not beyond his threshold. Anyway, nothing Ivan could do to him now could ever hurt worse than being in _that_ room had. Nothing hurt more than stopping still suddenly and realizing he couldn't remember who he was.

He clenched his teeth, bit down, and dealt with it.

All he could do was try to keep breathing under Ivan's weight and attempt to find some good balance between the pain and the creeping sense of pleasure—not necessarily from Ivan's hands or the friction from Ivan's stomach so much as from the fact that he was making Ivan _happy_. That was the most important thing.

He couldn't really say what possessed him to reach up and yank Ivan's hair then, as Ivan moved slowly, except for the possibility that maybe he had wanted Ivan to be a little rougher and the best way to do it was by being rough himself.

It worked.

He knew Ivan, well enough to know that this gentle, easy-going pace was for Ludwig's benefit only. And that wasn't what he wanted. He wanted Ivan to do as he pleased, and the tug to Ivan's hair was a silent way of saying, 'You're not going to fuckin' break me or anything, so do what you want.'

As much as the man in the alley didn't need to be told twice, neither did Ivan.

The grip on his leg tightened. Ivan's shallow breathing grew heavier.

Just like that, a leg was yanked up onto Ivan's shoulder, fingers clenched, Ivan pulled back, dug his feet into the mattress, and slammed back in.

Ludwig did cry out that time, and there was no mistaking it for a laugh because it wasn't. Actually, it had been damn close to a scream, and he clamped his jaw shut because if he did it again then Ivan would go back to that slow pace that was surely boring to him, and it might have been in that moment that Ludwig came to the realization that he would bear any amount of pain just to please Ivan.

That he would have thrown _himself_ into the dark closet, if Ivan had asked him, and sat there obediently still until Ivan felt like opening the door. Anything to make Ivan happy. Anything.

It wasn't just for Ivan's benefit, though, if Ludwig were honest—beneath it all, he was still high on that power-trip of being in control of others. It may not have been that Ludwig was actually attracted to Ivan in a normal sense, but he was damn attracted to the notion of Ivan. Power. Owning the world. When he was with Ivan, he felt that way, too.

Ivan's fingers were leaving bruises, as hard as they dug into his thighs, and he knew that his fingernails were scraping the skin of Ivan's shoulders. Heavy, breathless grunting in his ear.

He stopped thinking.

Ivan's hand raised up every so often, gripped his throat, gently, and then wound up in his hair.

He zoned into space.

Rustling.

At some point, when the pain had started dulling, when the angle changed and when Ivan stopped pulling out all the way and just pushed against him in shallow movements, when the sleet outside had stopped, Ludwig heard whispering. He raised his eyes, expecting to see the shifting of shadows and darkness, expecting to see things roaming about in the faint blue light of the city, and saw nothing.

A second of confusion.

He looked the other way, towards the window, and still saw nothing.

It took him a while to realize that it was _him_ , whispering in Ivan's ear. He couldn't remember what he had said, he couldn't say how long he had been doing it, and he couldn't really say that he had recognized his own voice at first. All he knew was that Ivan's hazy eyes locked onto his own, Ivan smiled crookedly against his panting, and leaned down far enough to kiss him.

What had he said?

Didn't matter. No time to think about it. Ivan's rough hand grabbed him, the pace picked up, Ivan had him so high up that he might have folded neatly in two, and breathing had gone from hard to impossible when Ivan's other hand snatched his neck.

No air. Blood flow decreased. The dim room went black. Dots across his vision.

Behind the daze, behind the lack of sight, caught on that brink of unconsciousness, the whispering in his head seemed to get louder. Lurid. Strange thoughts. Darkness, and not just within the room; up in his head, too.

He dug his nails into Ivan's back, hard as he could, and yanked them up because he knew that it would _hurt_. It was Ivan who grit his teeth, then, to keep a sharp gasp from escaping. His toes contracted as the pit of his stomach caught fire, and he could hear that Ivan wasn't breathing either, caught in some ecstatic state, head low and feet braced and eyes squinted.

Erratic, furious thrusting.

The fire turned white, and so did his vision for a second, and he clenched Ivan so tightly then that he knew he had drawn blood, bucking up as best he could against Ivan's weight and leg jerking.

Warmth under his fingernails.

Ivan let him go and braced himself on the bed, finally taking a great breath, giving a few more firm thrusts before falling still and sucking in air as hard as he could, his sweaty forehead dropping down onto Ludwig's shoulder. He let his hand loose from Ludwig's neck.

Air came back.

Ludwig rasped so hard that he nearly coughed, Ivan collapsed on top of him, and his head swam. It took a minute for the lights to stop dancing across his vision and for his lightheadedness to disappear, and when it did, he turned his head, pressed his nose into Ivan's hair, and smiled.

Ivan was god.

Afterwards, as he lied there, staring at the ceiling and heart still hammering away, he realized that he didn't feel bad. No regret. Not a bit of remorse. Not about anything that had happened that night.

He didn't feel bad about shooting a man. He didn't feel bad about hitting another. He didn't feel bad about letting Ivan crawl on top of him. He felt no remorse about laying here now, covered in sweat, pinned under someone else and trembling in exertion, he felt no remorse about becoming Ivan's, and he felt no remorse about the loss of something in his head that he couldn't put his finger on.

What had he ever been scared of? This was just like moving into Ivan's bedroom; it had all seemed so much more frightening until he had actually tried it. Pulling the trigger had seemed impossible the other day, and yet, now that he had done it...

Not so daunting.

Ivan was so heavy above him that breathing was barely possible. His leg threatened to cramp, still up at uncomfortable angle. Ivan's stubble was scraping his neck.

It hit him then, the thing that Ivan had been trying to make him understand for so long—hurting someone else hadn't hurt _him_. He'd hurt two people that night, and with each one, there had been no pang within him. Nothing.

No rules.

Ivan's voice, whispering suddenly in his ear.

"I love you."

Ivan's voice was louder than the other ones.

He leaned up his head, as high as he could, fingers still gripping Ivan's shoulders, and when he sank his teeth none too gently in the crook of Ivan's neck, the strangled exhale of breath was worth anything. Ivan reached up and clenched thick fingers in his hair, wrenching his head backwards so hard that the muscles in his neck pulled and ached, and the whisper in his ear had turned somewhat terrifying.

"I _love_ you. You love me too, don't you?"

Another wrench of his hair, harder than the last.

"Don't you?"

The voice that Ivan used when he slipped into the dark waters. The most frightening sound on earth.

Oh, _god_ —he coulda cried then, suddenly, for how he felt. His immediate answer, hardly a gasp, more of a sob :

" _Yes_."

Had he said 'no' or been unable to answer, he was quite unable to fathom the consequences.

Luckily for him, he meant it. He _meant_ it, so much. He loved Ivan _so_ much. He had never meant anything more. He couldn't understand what had snapped up in his head, but _something_ had, because he suddenly realized that he would have burned the entire world to ashes then if it would've made Ivan smile a little. He'd'a jumped off a fuckin' bridge if Ivan had asked him to. He'd have gone back _there_ and shot everyone he once knew, if it would have made Ivan happy. Anything.

The fingers let go, and he was the one who took Ivan's hair then, pulling him down so that he could kiss him again.

He _loved_ Ivan, and everything that came with him.

Satisfied at his answer, Ivan burrowed his sweaty forehead into Ludwig's neck, and was out soon after.

Ludwig laid there, and stared at nothing.

He smelled like Ivan. Suddenly, that was the only way he ever wanted to smell. The hair on Ivan's chest agitated his own, but he made no move to squirm, not against that or the wetness that was irritating his thighs. Moving might wake Ivan, and he might get up. Ludwig would rather he stayed there, because, god, there couldn't ever be a feeling as good as this. Weight above him and a heart pounding against him. Feeling in place.

To feel _needed_.

Pain was nothing, as long as Ivan was content.

In the light of the moon that had come out from behind the clouds, Ludwig looked over breathlessly at the mirror, and found that he no longer recognized himself. Pinned under massive Ivan, forehead shimmering and hair matted to his head, he saw his reflection, himself, his eyes silver against the shadows, something of a sneer upon his face, and even his expression was something he had never seen before. He lifted up his hand, fingers across his face, and the eyes that peered out from between them were unknown.

Who was that?

No one he knew. He almost saw something of Ivan there within him. That made him smile. And he realized, too, that that smile wasn't his.

Ivan's.

He just stared at the man in the mirror, feeling surreal and enthralled, until Ivan rolled off of him later and slung an arm over his chest. He turned on his side, faced Ivan, and somehow, someway, he still felt as if he were staring straight into that mirror. Ivan had suddenly become his reflection. The glass had shattered at some point, and both sides had merged together.

One.

He put his hand on Ivan's cheek, feeling more as if it was his own, and let his tired mind wander.

Hurt. When he didn't think about it, when he didn't sit around and wonder about whether it was right or wrong, it wasn't so hard. It wasn't hard to cause harm to others. It wasn't hard to pick up the pen. It wasn't hard to pull the trigger. It wasn't hard to start a fire. It wasn't hard to _hurt_ people. If it made Ivan happy. The world didn't matter. People didn't matter. Nothing mattered. Except for Ivan.

There was a reason that there were laws against hurting people—because once you did it, it was hard not to want to do it again.

No more rules.

That little voice in the back of his mind, the one that had been withering away for so _long_ , the one that had given the last of its strength to stop him from killing that man, finally lied down that night, curled up, and died.

It didn't come back.

* * *

His good mood that had come from speaking about Ludwig had taken a turn for the worse.

It didn't come back.

Eduard, tipsy and restless, had started playing with the radio, and Ludwig had woken up long before to start berating him again over absolutely nothing. No doubt he had earned a good tongue-lashing, over something or another, but now wasn't the best time. Sleepin' in this shitty Moscow hotel was pretty much hell on earth. Seeing Eduard drinking and not being able to join didn't help.

_'Gilbert, look at you! What are you doin' here? Roderich is probably waiting for you to call him, but you haven't. You should have let Alfred come, as least he could have kept up with everything. You don't listen. Alfred would have me already. He's better than you are.'_

Gilbert couldn't tell Ludwig to shut the hell up in front of Eduard, so he glowered at the wall instead. The passing in and out of radio stations was starting to annoy him. He wanted to say, 'Knock it off, you're getting on my nerves.' He didn't—pissing Eduard off wasn't a great idea. Not with the unholy journey they had ahead of them. Gilbert wasn't that smart, but burning through the only ally he had was a damn bad move.

They sat there silently, listening to more sleet battering the windows, and Eduard kept on flipping rather wearily through the radio stations, apparently hoping to catch glimpse of something familiar.

Gilbert stared up at the ceiling, as the squealing and tuning irritated his ears, and Ludwig looked down at him from above.

' _You should pay attention_ ,' he chided, seriously, ' _What if you hear his voice, huh? Why don't you ever listen when you need to?_ '

His first thought was to retort, 'So what? Who cares?'

So _what_ , if he heard that voice again on the radio? What good would that do? If he were feeling more childish—that is to say, if he had been feeling more like himself—he might have grabbed the radio and chucked it against the wall just so that Eduard couldn't play with the goddamn thing anymore.

Garbled words every so often. A flash of music. Static.

Eduard's hand fell still for a second, brow scrunched, and then he gave an odd, tired sigh. Nothing. After a second of hesitation, he flipped the knob, the static shut off, and he flopped down stomach-first on the bed. Turning his face, half-buried in the blankets, Eduard looked over at him, and just muttered, "I swear, can't even find a good radio station out here."

Eduard's lame attempt to make him smile failed. Miserably.

This time, Gilbert did snap, "So what?"

Eduard just stared at him, and it was obvious that he had something he wanted to say, but not until Gilbert was in a more receptive mood.

Ludwig narrowed his eyes and sent Gilbert a prim glare, muttering, ' _Can't even be nice to people that are tryin' to help you, can ya? You're such a brat_.'

Again, he spat, "So what?"

Eduard sent him a strange look.

_'Just go home, Gilbert. If you're going to be like this, then I don't even_ want _you to come get me.'_

Those words terrified him.

He tried to soften his voice a bit, hard for him, and finally said, "If you got somethin' you wanna say, you may as well say it. You're not gonna put me in a worse mood than I'm already in."

And that was the goddamn truth.

Eduard hesitated for a second, the flush of alcohol finally appearing upon his face, and he gave a great sigh, glasses crooked on his nose.

"Well! I've been thinking about it, but I was kinda scared to throw it out there. It's not something I was really looking forward to, but our situation now doesn't seem to be very good." He buried his face in the bed momentarily, gathering courage perhaps, and tried to trudge on. "Just...bear with me a little, alright? It sounds kinda weird."

"Whatever. Just say it."

Ludwig just shook his head.

Finally, Eduard said, carefully, "I know somebody that might be able to help."

Gilbert sat up so fast that a sharp pain hit his side, and he craned his neck forward, eyes wide.

Before he could open his mouth, Eduard said, quickly, "But there's a catch!"

His adrenaline faded, and he gripped handfuls of blanket. Ludwig was smiling, and it was the sight of him that gave Gilbert the courage to ask, "What is it?"

Eduard pushed himself up, and sat on his knees.

"She's crazy."

Ludwig broke into a beam, and purred, ' _Who isn't?_ '

Well— _that_ was true.

"How crazy?"

"Crazy enough that I felt it prudent to mention," was Eduard's somewhat snippy response.

Maybe once upon a time such a tone would have made him swing a fist, but he was too damn jittery to really take offense at Eduard's snap. He could feel his hair bristling, standing up on the back of his neck in what, for once, was not fear or anger.

Excitement. A long time coming.

"I'm not sayin' she'll lead us right to him. Hell, even if she does help, it will probably just be her way of trying to get us killed, but it'll be easier if we could talk her into at least keeping a lookout for us. She couldn't stand it when _I_ was out there; I'm sure that she'll be glad to try and get rid of your brother. So. What do you say? Do you wanna risk it, or should we just forget it and go on our own?"

Crazy.

Eduard watched him, expectantly, and waited for his call.

He didn't even think about it. He'd take any help he could get. Any. There were certainly many holes missing in this, and some part of him wanted to ask why the hell some woman out in the middle of nowhere would even have a care about Ludwig, but he realized it didn't matter.

Anything.

"So!" he finally said, as Eduard eyed him easily, "Let's go find the bitch."

A short silence, as Eduard smiled away, and then he quipped, "Got a death-wish, huh?"

Probably. He always had.

"Scared or somethin'?" he boasted, in a absolute bluff, because _he_ was the one that was scared, but Eduard didn't seem fazed by his bold words, and just laughed.

"Hell yeah! Why'd you think I was drinking? I gotta be drunk to even think about gettin' help from _her_. She scares the shit out of me. Ha, you'll be scared, too, when you finally meet her."

"Sure."

Eduard's smile fell for a second, as a darkness flashed over his face, and Gilbert imagined that he was struggling with this whole thing. By all rights, Eduard could have (and probably should have) just abandoned Gilbert to his own devices and gone back to the border screamin'. Who knew why he didn't. Gilbert didn't pretend to know, and didn't really want to.

When Eduard spoke again, he just said, "Between her and him...hell, I'd almost rather run into _him_ , honestly. But hey, you do what ya gotta do, I guess. Sure will be something, seeing her face again." A coarse laugh. "Me and you will end up lyin' next to each other in some boxes by the end of this."

Gilbert couldn't find his bluff this time, and just sat there, knowing that his shoulders had slumped and his ecstatic air had deflated. He just wanted to go home.

Gilbert lied back down, then, and replaced his hands behind his head. A little while later, when his mind started wandering, something struck him. He looked over suddenly at Eduard, and repeated, lowly, "When _you_ were out there. Is that what you said?"

A long, long silence.

"That's what I said."

"How—"

"Don't. Just don't. I'm not that drunk."

Shot down, Gilbert turned his eyes back to the ceiling, and listened to Ludwig's deep humming. He was curious, sure, but he wouldn't press. Whatever was going on with Eduard didn't concern him hardly as much as what was happening with Ludwig.

Ludwig. The north star.

Every so often, Ludwig's deep humming became high-pitched, as an adult Ludwig reverted occasionally back to the child one.

When he had picked up Ludwig that first time, he had promised it would be forever. If he couldn't keep that oath, then lyin' in a box somewhere was exactly what he deserved.

"Get some sleep," Eduard finally grumbled. "You look like shit. We'll start out of here in a week or two. Try to make it over Yekaterinburg and wait there for the snows to start melting. Maybe in a month or two we'll make it to Lesosibirsk. We've got a hell of a way to go, my friend, so you may as well sleep through most of it."

He tried.

Ludwig lied beside of him again, and stared at him from across the pillow.

Hours later, when Eduard was asleep, Gilbert sent Ludwig a smile, and whispered, fervently, "No matter what happens, I want you to know that I— _oh_. Ludwig, you made me _happy_."

A calm smile from Ludwig.

Ludwig had made him happy. The only thing that ever really had. The world didn't matter to him, not if Ludwig wasn't in it.

Ludwig stared at him as he lied there, and when the brink of sleep was upon him, when reality turned into surrealism, when being awake was no longer distinguishable from being asleep, Ludwig started whispering. The godawful shudder of fear that crept down his back couldn't ever have been felt as strongly had he been truly awake.

Not Ludwig's voice. Someone else's.

He reached for the pillow with heavy hands, buried his head beneath, and tried to shut out the familiar voice in his ears.

_His_ voice.


	35. Erratic

**Chapter 35**

**Erratic**

Laughing.

Ludwig was laughing.

It was such a strange, unfamiliar sound that Toris, when he had heard it the first time (deep and rough and _sincere_ , echoing through the halls with a certain eeriness), just _knew_ it was those damn KGB jerks from town, maybe hanging out at the front door and trying their hands at hapless Irina because they knew Ivan was not around.

Hadn't they taken the hint by now? Irina wasn't interested. They'd get the hint once and for all, sons a bitches, when he capped them one in the knees.

Toris came skidding around the corner, hand flying down to his gun, but when he came around and the front door was in sight, he fell still. Irina was there alright, and someone was definitely chatting her up, but it wasn't the officers.

It was just Ludwig.

He was back from Moscow.

Ivan stood behind him, suitcase in hand, smiling easily as Ludwig allowed Irina to embrace him and run her fingers through his hair and fuss over him. Ludwig was _laughing_ , no doubt at something silly Irina had said, and Toris could only stand there. He could already see it :

This Ludwig was not the same.

He had known all along that this would happen.

Irina put her hand on Ludwig's stubbled cheek, and he leaned forward to place a kiss upon her forehead, murmuring smooth words that were so low Toris couldn't hear them.

Toris didn't recognize this man.

Ludwig had put on quite a bit of weight since he had left. His cheeks were full. His pale skin was white as ever, but not wan. He looked bright and alert, healthy, and for it was quite handsome. Looked younger then, looked his age. Some college kid, out on break and having fun.

Pale eyes turned, and locked onto his own.

"Hi, Toris. Miss me?"

He didn't recognize that voice. He didn't recognize that expression. Those eyes.

All the same, he knew it was Ludwig, and when he came inside and extended a hand, Toris took it, because not taking it somehow seemed a bit risky. "Hi, Ludwig," was all he said in the end, and Ludwig smiled. Hadn't seen that smile, either. Ludwig gave him a brisk handshake, clapped his shoulder in friendliness, and walked on.

Since when had Ludwig ever shaken Toris' hand? His Ludwig would have just run up to him and stared at him like a lost puppy, waiting for Toris to pity him and scoop him up and coddle him.

Some part of Toris had wanted to say, 'Welcome home, Ludwig! You look great. How many people have you killed so far?'

As he passed, Toris noted that Ludwig smelled different, too. Like Ivan. Yikes—no doubt they'd found something to do to pass the time on the train, so to speak, but to see Ludwig and smell Ivan was a gigantic mind-fuck.

Toris watched Ludwig go, and gave a sigh.

Well. Had been nice knowin' Ludwig, while he had been there. Dumb kid.

When the baggage was put away, later on, Toris watched as Raivis came running up to Ivan and Ludwig, saw their uniforms, and started blabbering away. Ludwig had no idea was Raivis was sayin', but it still agitated Toris when he smiled anyway, and promptly removed his cap and handed it to Raivis. The look on the his face was like someone had told him he had suddenly become a king, and when he shoved Ludwig's colonel's cap on his head, Toris was fairly certain that Ludwig had become Raivis' new idol.

Once, that thought might have pleased him. He might have said to himself, 'Thank god Raivis is lookin' up to a nice guy like Ludwig, instead of someone like Ivan.'

Now...

He stood there, brow low, and couldn't say why it bothered him so much to see the look of admiration upon Raivis' face. Unnerving. He realized that he wanted to pull Raivis aside and say, 'You should stay away from him.' He didn't know _this_ Ludwig yet—he probably wasn't safe. It was like meeting someone for the first time, even though the look of them was the same.

How strange.

Ah, hell, Raivis didn't listen to him anyway. Little punk was just counting down the days until he could get his own damn uniform and go out with Ivan and Ludwig. Be like them.

For now, Toris would watch this Ludwig from afar, figure him out a little, and then act accordingly. Hopefully, this Ludwig was still an ocean apart from Ivan.

The next morning, he woke up, and set immediately to observation. Curiosity was the dominant feeling for now. If fear were needed, it would be obvious.

Ludwig walked differently, he noticed that right off. More confidently. His head was held higher and his stance was a little looser when he strode along, and he had stopped staring at the ground when he walked. Ludwig had been so clumsy before. His feet didn't waiver now.

He talked differently, too. A bit more eloquently. His Berlin accent had all but disappeared from his speech, and he stopped clipping off the ends of his words and using slang. He put his words together a bit more neatly, and seemed to think about what he said before he said it. Ludwig had just uttered whatever came to mind before, rather gruffly. Now, even though he was no doubt as smart as he had always been, he certainly _sounded_ smarter.

Toris knew why.

Ludwig carried himself more gracefully, more elegantly, because doing so made Ivan look better. Upholding Ivan's image, no matter what. Everything Ludwig did now was for Ivan.

Over the next few days, Toris noticed that Ludwig did everything Ivan said, at the snap of a finger, without even thinking about it. Like a damn dog. When Ivan said 'sit', Ludwig sat. When Ivan told Ludwig to 'come', Ludwig came. When Ivan said 'stay', Ludwig looked like he coulda _cried_ , but he stood still all the same. Toris was rather happy not knowing what Ludwig would do when Ivan commanded him to attack.

And, just like a dog, Ludwig looked over at Ivan with endless devotion, and Toris knew that, in Ludwig's eyes, Ivan was god. If Ludwig had had a tail, whenever Ivan looked at him it would have wagged so hard that it knocked down everything in its path.

Kinda sad.

He had seen it happening, he had known it would come to this, but it was still so disheartening, somehow, to see Ludwig so submissively complacent around Ivan, after having known the old Ludwig, who would've sooner punched Ivan in the face than smile at him.

The old Ludwig, who had been so proud. Brave.

This Ludwig was no doubt still proud and brave, but only in instances that were connected to Ivan. Ludwig was proud, yeah, proud when it came to standing at Ivan's side and pulling off the guise of a soldier with uncanny ease. Ludwig was brave, certainly, and would have _bravely_ thrown himself in front of a car if it meant keeping Ivan's boots from being splashed.

Pitiful.

Being able to see these changes in Ludwig was kind of heartbreaking, in a way, because he could only sit there and look at Ludwig and just know that, if he had been an outsider, he would have been able to look at himself and see such differences. He was the same as Ludwig.

Days passed, and Toris kept waiting and waiting, and yet no matter how long he waited, the Ludwig that he had loved didn't come out. All the same, he waited, because admitting that that Ludwig was dead just hurt too damn much.

He waited.

The Ludwig that had called him brother had been so strong, he had lasted so long, he had given everything he had, and maybe it had been just too much and he had finally burnt out. Toris waited, still.

During the next two weeks, Toris never did catch a glimpse of _his_ Ludwig, but he did meet two new Ludwigs.

The first one, the one that had walked through the door that day, might have been mistaken for the original Ludwig by one who hadn't known him very well. The first Ludwig was Ludwig. Just a little different. Toris had already taken note of most of his differences, but saw a few more here and there. This Ludwig drank more. Held his head up. Dressed neatly. Sometimes, he could be a little moody. He was still mostly friendly though, and Toris had yet to find a reason to avoid him.

Just wasn't the same as the old one.

The second Ludwig was Colonel Müller.

Not quite as friendly as the other, but he didn't make too many appearances, at least not within the house, so meeting Colonel Müller wasn't that big a deal. All you had to do was speak a little more politely, keep your posture a little straight, nod when expected to, and you survived an encounter with him with incredible ease. If you irritated him, he might send you stern looks of agitation, and he might snip a little, but that was all. He didn't drink as much as Ludwig, but was sterner and didn't laugh.

Colonel Müller wasn't all that bad. More like running into your boss on your day off. Unpleasant, but nothing to regret as long as you played your cards right.

Life went on.

In lieu of _his_ Ludwig, Toris settled for the first new Ludwig, because, apart from being obsessed with Ivan, he wasn't too bad, and he was better than nothing. Brother.

Toris had assumed there were only two Ludwigs, but he soon found himself proven wrong. Actually, there were three. The third Ludwig had made an appearance only once. Just once. And Toris was damn grateful for that, because the third Ludwig was Ivan.

The morning he had come out, for the first time, had been a frightful experience.

Toris woke up to the sound of screaming.

He knew it was Ivan, just knew it. Going into one of _those_ moods. By the time Toris got downstairs and tracked down the commotion, the screaming had stopped, but he opened the door all the same.

It hadn't been Ivan that was screaming, that much was obvious; Ivan was sitting quite nonchalantly at his desk, paper in hand, and was reading as though nothing was out of the ordinary. It was Ludwig, hair sticking up rather messily and dressed in Ivan's clothes, that was stomping back and forth, breathing through his mouth and very nearly fuming with anger. His pulse raced in his neck. Face flushed red. Hands clenched and teeth gritted.

Toris didn't know what had set Ludwig off. Maybe an unpleasant thought had crossed his mind. Maybe someone had slammed a door too hard. Maybe he had gotten something on his shirt. Maybe it had been nothing at all.

Ludwig stalked back and forth, jaw clamped and fists clenched and eyes swirling, and Toris could only stand there in the doorframe, somehow fascinated. Terrified, absolutely, but fascinated all the same. To see Ludwig, once gentle Ludwig, so consumed with wrath, was morbidly eye-catching.

Toris leaned himself against the frame, and watched. Ivan saw Toris there, and smirked, lifting his chin as if trying to tell Toris something. Toris just lifted his own chin in turn, not catching Ivan's gist, and watched Ludwig fume.

Ludwig stalked so hard and fast back and forth across the room that he nearly slammed into the walls.

Ivan finally glanced up from his paper at Ludwig, hardly concerned, and nearly leered when he drawled, 'Calm down. What are you gonna do about it, huh? Sit down before you hurt yourself.'

Toris had been damn-near stunned.

_'Calm down.'_

To hear those words coming from Ivan, to hear Ivan telling someone _else_ to calm down, was like waking up one morning and realizing that his bed was up on the ceiling.

Ludwig, still so furious, turned around, bumped into the desk, and promptly shoved a mug and everything else right off of it in his rage. The glass shattered on the floor. Ludwig had turned then, maybe to cause more hell, and suddenly saw Toris leaning in the doorframe. A short stillness. Within that glimpse, that split-second, Toris had seen something terrifying in Ludwig's eyes. Midnight. A flash of lightning. The storm, swirling overhead.

Only a second, though.

Ludwig blinked, straightened up a little, took a great breath, and god help him, Ludwig had looked so _confused_ suddenly. His eyes had cleared of the storm only to be replaced with fog. Ludwig stood there, still and quiet, so lost, and then he gave a sigh, as if something had been flipped on inside of his head and he was coming back down.

He finally lowered his shoulders, loosened his face, and had said, 'Hi, Toris.'

Toris had smiled at him, as best he could.

'Hey, Ludwig.'

He made sure to say _Ludwig_ ; the best way to keep Ludwig from being Ivan was to remind him of who he was.

There had been a short silence, and then Ludwig had walked over to the desk, leaned his back against it, and as his palms held up his weight, he swept his eyes over the room, brow scrunched in thought, and it was obvious that if he remembered being so angry, then he certainly didn't remember _why_. His glance caught sight of the shattered mug shortly after, and when he knelt down to pick it up, he looked up at Ivan and gave a weak, halfhearted smile, as though Ivan would somehow remind him of what he had been doing.

Confused.

Toris stood there, until Ivan reached down and put a huge hand on Ludwig's cheek, until Ludwig took Ivan's wrist and the smile grew stronger, and then he turned and walked away.

That was the only time the Ivan-Ludwig had come out, and Toris decided that it would be wise to do everything in his power to keep it that way.

Still...

When he thought about it, later on, the Ivan-Ludwig was still half Ludwig, and Ludwig was still, somewhere in there, a gentle soul. The darkness was there, but Toris couldn't say for certain that Ludwig would have harnessed it and acted upon it as Ivan did. Maybe the darkness was too quick—a match that was struck, but before Ludwig could start a fire it burned out and just left the scent of smoke.

Ludwig could form the darkness, sure he could, but he couldn't use it yet. How much longer would that last? The obvious answer was rather frightening—only until Ludwig killed someone. One murder was all it took, and the floodgates would open.

With every single day that went by, Toris lamented more and more.

Ludwig. He missed Ludwig. It was sadder, somehow, to miss someone _so_ much when they were still very much in front of you, at least physically. To see Ludwig, and yet not.

Ludwig was gone.

It seemed that no matter how hard he tried to cling to brothers, he just kept losing them.

His fault—he shouldn't have let Ludwig go to Moscow.

Days passed.

* * *

Screaming.

Ivan was screaming.

Toris could hear it from downstairs, and found himself looking up at the ceiling. This time, it _was_ Ivan. Toris could only wonder what poor Ludwig had done now, assuming he had done anything at all.

Ah, hell. Ivan was in one of _those_ moods.

He thought about going up and being nosy again, but, honestly, he was too scared. Ludwig couldn't do anything with the darkness under the surface yet, but Ivan sure as hell could. And, anyway, if there was anyone that could withstand Ivan's night, then it was Ludwig. Ludwig, who Ivan adored.

So Toris just sat there, and listened.

The screams only lasted a few minutes. Ivan's voice, high-pitched and cracking with the effort of shrieking, and sometimes he heard a quiet, gentle murmur that was Ludwig. Hardly an argument; Ludwig would never dare to actually raise his voice and scream at Ivan, not Ivan. He no doubt gave his best effort to speak up and calm Ivan down, but he wouldn't ever argue. Nobody argued with Ivan and came out unscathed, not even Ludwig.

Ludwig knew his place, like everyone else did, and just rode out the storm.

This was just a part of life here.

After a while, the screaming abruptly stopped, and there was a dull thud. Toris knew it was Ivan, wrenching back his fist and slamming it straight into the wall, no doubt somewhere very close to Ludwig's head. Toris could envision it up in his mind, and he was fairly certain that Ludwig, no matter how close Ivan's fist came, didn't flinch, and stood quite still. Eventually, Ivan would regain control of himself again, and even though there was probably a hole in the wall, Ludwig would just smile.

Ivan, coming out of that cloud, would turn his eyes down to Ludwig, and break into a beam, as if seeing Ludwig for the first time.

Later on, the door shut, and Toris could see, in his perhaps overactive mind, Ivan and Ludwig walking down the hall, hand in hand and crooning to each other like schoolgirls. As if nothing had happened.

Ludwig never flinched.

Because Ivan would never hit Ludwig. Maybe just because Ludwig wasn't afraid. Ludwig adored Ivan, as much as Ivan adored him.

Made him sick.

Toris watched them interact sometimes, and he couldn't really understand it. He couldn't understand what went through Ivan's mind when he touched Ludwig's cheek. He couldn't understand what went through Ludwig's head when he took Ivan's hand and brought it down to his lips to place a kiss on the palm. He couldn't understand what Ivan said when he leaned in and whispered in Ludwig's ear. He couldn't understand why Ludwig smiled and exhaled.

Ludwig and Ivan, somewhere back there, had created their own universe.

Toris wasn't in tune with them enough anymore to be able to see into it. He could see the light from the galaxies and stars, shining from a distance, but every time he tried to look deeper he was intercepted by a black hole or an asteroid field.

Whatever they did, whatever they said to each other, whatever went on in their minds, Toris couldn't understand anymore.

They had transcended him.

Static.

They created radiation, as much as any stars did, and the waves were starting to crash down upon the earth.

Pulsing.

* * *

Crying.

Ludwig was crying.

Toris walked through the halls one day, minding his own business, and when he passed by a door, he thought he heard the muffled sound of crying. He stopped in his tracks, turned his head back, and furrowed his brow. He listened, hard, and backtracked a little.

Sobbing.

A strange, eerie sound, within these silent, empty halls.

It didn't take him too long to pinpoint the sound. He leaned in towards the door in question, face tense in concentration, and he was certain. Behind the door, for whatever reason, Ludwig was crying. The sound was different, somehow, than what he remembered from when Ludwig had burst into tears in Ivan's office. He grabbed the doorknob, and had very nearly pushed it open when another sound stopped him short. Whispering. As much as he had recognized Ludwig's sobs, he recognized Ivan's whispering.

A shudder.

Ludwig crying was frightening on its own. Adding Ivan's whispering into the mix was damn beyond terrifying, and Toris wouldn't lie and say his heart hadn't been hammering as he had turned on his heel and bolted off.

Didn't wanna know.

He didn't know what they did in their spare time, he didn't know what unholy things Ivan whispered to Ludwig, he didn't know what muddled thoughts were trudging through Ludwig's head, and it made him a shitty human being but Toris was _glad_ all the same that he didn't know. Keep it that way. If whatever Ivan was whispering was enough to make Ludwig break down into tears, then he didn't wanna know.

Maybe Ivan was tearing down another wall in Ludwig's head. Maybe Ivan was pinning Ludwig down on some surface and hurting him. Maybe Ivan had locked Ludwig in the closet.

...or, more probably, Ivan was crooning endless devotion, and Ludwig was crying because, for some godawful reason, Ludwig just loved Ivan _that_ much.

Not knowing was better.

A horrible sensation; guilt. Ludwig crying like that.

Weeks passed. March was ending.

Ludwig was thriving.

One evening, after a day of being completely absent, Ludwig finally appeared, and when Toris saw him in the hall, he felt a horrible burst of something that was almost _joy_.

Ludwig was walking towards the kitchen, and Toris saw his state immediately. Limping a bit, clothes disheveled and hair rumpled, he stumbled through the halls, forehead and shirt soaked with sweat, blood stained his collar, and the bruises on his arms and face were obvious even from a distance. Black eye and split lip. Breathing through his mouth and wincing with every step he took.

Ivan had roughed him up. Ludwig?—Ivan _never_ hit Ludwig.

And, god help him, Toris almost felt joy.

It was horrible, sure it was, but some terrible part of him wanted for Ivan to just beat Ludwig senseless one day for no reason so that Ludwig might understand a little the world he lived in. He wanted someone else to _understand_. He wanted Ludwig to understand. (Granted, since Ludwig had been around, taking all of Ivan's attention, Ivan hadn't even noticed Toris' presence, let alone lashed out at him, so maybe this was an instance on his part of looking the gift-horse in the mouth.)

Toris wasn't a good person by any means, had never pretended to be, and Toris smiled at the sight of a beaten Ludwig.

Rushing forward, he came to a halt before Ludwig, who smiled over at him calmly, and said, more eagerly than he meant to, "Wow, Ludwig! What happened to _you_? What did you do to make him so angry?"

Enthusiasm? Check.

A second of silence, and then Ludwig's smile widened and he laughed, voice deep and smooth and unconcerned, and finally said, "Angry? Nah. Nothing like that. Ivan's teaching me—oh, damn, what did he call it?"

Ludwig trailed off, thinking hard, and finally made a playful fist, punching Toris very gently on the chest.

Toris understood, and felt the first twinge of disappointment.

"Oh, you mean systema? He's teaching you, huh?"

Damn.

The way Ludwig said Ivan's name was almost as frightening as the way Ivan crooned Lyudovik. Utter adoration.

Of _course_ Ivan would teach Ludwig the art of systema. Why wouldn't he? Ludwig was everything that Ivan had ever wanted; tall, handsome, strong, brave and loyal. Fearless. Ivan had already taught him to shoot—why not teach him hand-to-hand combat too? Why not teach him to knife fight? Ivan would be eager to have someone to spar with in his spare moments, if only to release some of that need for violence that lay within him, and Ludwig was probably just as eager to learn the art that KGB officers were trained in.

Talk about sneezing on the mountaintop.

Weren't Ludwig and Ivan already unstable enough together? Did Ludwig really need to become even _more_ dangerous? More aggressive? Did Ivan need to take what was already a loaded rifle and saw the safety off? Was it necessary to turn Ludwig into a lethal weapon? Obviously, Ivan thought so.

He should have known. This would cause an avalanche, eventually.

There was little to be done about it, though, and Toris could only observe Ludwig's black eye, and ask, "Do you like it?"

"Oh, yeah," came Ludwig's cool response, as he reached up and wiped his split lip with an absent hand, and his smile seemed unshakeable, despite the bruises. "I'm just not very good yet. Obviously. But I'll get it!"

Toris' heart sank. Ludwig _would_ get it. Ludwig seemed to get everything.

"Oh," was his dumb response, and his disappointment was mingled with envy.

Ivan had never tried to teach Toris, not really. Had knocked him around a few times, playfully, when in a rare good mood, but had never given it true effort. Toris had had to learn everything he knew on his own. Toris had had to go out into the world and find other men to fight, because Ivan didn't consider Toris worth the time it took to teach.

Finally, Toris managed to say, tersely, "Well, keep at it."

"I will."

Maybe, if nothing else, Ludwig would one day get a shot in and give Ivan a black eye, and maybe that would make everything alright somehow, in the end.

The next day, when he heard a scuffle from within a room, Toris could only imagine Ivan, slashing away with knife in hand, trying to spur a bruised Ludwig into moving faster. Somehow, up in his head, Ludwig was still smiling, even as the knife came too close. Strands of blond, drifting to the floor. Ludwig's hand, not getting out of the path fast enough.

Afterwards, when Ludwig was bruised and bleeding, Ivan probably shoved him against the wall, ran a soothing hand up and down his cheek, and threw out cooed words of affection and admiration.

He could hear Ivan's silvery voice in his head.

_'Poor thing! Look at you. I'm sorry I went so rough on you, but you're doing so well! Here, I'll make it feel better—'_

And Ludwig just smiled away, as blood trickled down his palm. When Ivan kissed him, he lifted up his bloody hand to Ivan's cheek, and turned Ivan's pale stubble red.

Worse when he let his mind wander like that.

The whole damn thought terrified him a little, and he made a point of casting it aside.

Even if he didn't think about it, though, the effect of Ivan's training was obvious. Every time he looked at Ludwig, it seemed, he was healthier. The wan, skinny Ludwig that had frequented this house in the beginning was long gone. Through his shirts, Toris could see the muscle forming. He filled Ivan's shirts in much better than he had before. His shoulders and neck were firmer. His thighs were thicker. The veins on the backs of his hands were more visible beneath the skin.

A tiger, that had somehow found its way out of the forest and into the house.

Ludwig was strong. Ludwig was fast. Ludwig was smart. Ludwig was bold. Ludwig was fearless.

Ludwig was _dangerous_.

When Ludwig came around, Toris realized that he was always wide-awake. Ludwig stepping into the room was better than a few cups of coffee, because the rush of adrenaline kept him on his toes. Best to be sharp-eyed and fully aware around Ludwig. Just in case.

Coulda kicked Ludwig's ass if it had come to that, because Ludwig was still a dumb kid, sure, but wasn't looking forward to the tussle, nor Ivan's bullet after.

Inside the house, for the most part, Ludwig was still Ludwig, and Toris didn't feel as if Ludwig would ever hurt him, not _him_ , but if something agitated Ludwig or if he woke up in a bad mood, then maybe the ice thinned a bit. Ludwig wouldn't hurt Raivis, because Raivis adored him, and he wouldn't hurt Irina, because Irina was bound to Ivan by blood.

Toris wasn't sure where he found himself in this new Ludwig's affections.

Did this silkier Ludwig still think of him as a brother? So long Ludwig had sought him out, so long Toris had rejected him. Did Ludwig remember that? The Ivan-Ludwig might not love him as much as Ludwig did, nor quite as much as Colonel Müller.

Careful steps. Tiptoeing around.

An odd feeling, this anxiety, because Toris was used to owning everyone and everything except Ivan. Had never feared anyone but Ivan, because Toris could have killed anyone he wanted to. Being scared of this young newcomer was extremely unpleasant, if only because Toris wasn't entirely certain, if worse came to worst, who would come out on top. Ivan training Ludwig personally gave Ludwig an edge that Toris would never have.

For all it mattered. If Ludwig ever did start a fight with Toris, what could he do? Toris wasn't sure that punching Ludwig and beating him into place would go over well with Ivan. Fighting Ludwig would have been like fighting Ivan, and Toris would never dare. Would have had to just grit his teeth and put up with it.

For now, that possibility seemed far off.

Toris knew it would be best to avoid Ludwig altogether, but he couldn't seem to do it. He still loved Ludwig. Too painful, to let him go. Ludwig had been Toris' responsibility.

Days later, Ludwig stood in front of the mirror, glossing himself into neat perfection for the day, and when he turned around, he put his hands on his hips and said, quickly, "Toris."

It hit Toris then, like a ton of fuckin' bricks, that he had snapped his head over and said, immediately, "Yes?" as much as he ever had when being addressed by Ivan. Better not to antagonize him.

Ludwig just smiled at him, every strand of hair perfectly in place, and he asked, "Who am I?"

For a moment, Toris had the mind to open his mouth and say, 'Ivan.'

Because that was mostly what he saw now when he looked at Ludwig. A lither, paler, gentler Ivan.

Gentler? Yeah. Sure. Maybe. But still Ivan.

In the end, Toris just said, "You're Ludwig."

And Ludwig just smiled all the wider, and replied, "Thanks. I forget sometimes."

As if they were having a completely normal conversation.

Ludwig didn't know who he was anymore, and sometimes Toris didn't, either. Today, though, Ludwig was Ludwig. Tomorrow, depending on the mood, he would be Colonel Müller. The day after, maybe something would agitate him and he would be Ivan.

Toris couldn't say that he really cared for any one of them. The only Ludwig he had ever liked no longer made any appearances, and no matter how long he kept trying to wait, it was obvious that he wasn't going to come back. That Ludwig had died off, somewhere in the snow.

All the same, of the three, this Ludwig was likely the most amicable. So Toris reached over, clapped a hand on his shoulder, and gave him a shake.

"Come on. I'm gonna put you to work on my papers. How's that sound?"

Ludwig just smiled.

He led Ludwig down the hall, and it crossed his mind that, if he had answered Ludwig's question with Ivan's name, then Ludwig probably would have burst into tears of happiness.

They sat down soon after, alone together, and Toris might have enjoyed having a moment with Ludwig if he hadn't noticed something.

It occurred to Toris then that Ludwig sat differently than he once had. Taking a seat at the desk, he leaned over and placed his elbows on the table, feet crossed underneath him and face loose, seemingly happy to engage in whatever Toris had in store for him. He picked up the pen from the table without a second thought.

Before, Ludwig had leaned back in his chair, hands tucked in his lap and feet splayed, always looking around in case he would need to make an escape. He sat easily now, and took the papers that Toris handed him with a smile. Too eager. Why that bothered him, he couldn't say. So much about this Ludwig bothered him.

All the same, he showed Ludwig what to do, and let him try his hand at it. All he had to do was put his signature at the bottom. That was all. Nothing grand. Toris probably shouldn't've—letting Ludwig play around with the paperwork might have just bolstered him more.

Too late.

Whatever the consequences, Toris found that he was glad to have Ludwig away from Ivan for a while.

Pens, scratching paper. Ludwig worked very diligently, and sometimes Toris looked over to see him biting his lip or poking his tongue out, as he scrutinized something with intensity. For all the good it would do. Ludwig couldn't read Russian, but seemed happy to slap his signature on stuff all the same. He must have loved writing his new name, because he blazed through the pile quickly.

"What's this, Toris?" Ludwig suddenly asked, and Toris took the pen from his mouth and leaned over.

Ludwig saw numbers, and was interested.

"Ah. Nothin' important. Just budgets. Look, see that one? That's the current budget for the tanks. And that one there is the budget for the bullets. That one's for field doctors. See? All you do is just round them out and make sure that you're keeping everything even and not blowin' your budget. If you want to give more funds to one, you gotta take away from another. Get it?"

Ludwig nodded his head, and said, surely, "Yeah, I get it."

With that, Ludwig took the pen, and carried on. The rest of the time went smoothly, as Ludwig chatted with him and laughed like all was well in the world, and, hell, Toris had found himself laughing a little bit there too.

Afterwards, though, when the work was done and Ludwig was being dragged around by Raivis (his colonel's cap down on Raivis' head), Toris shuffled through the papers, and felt his brow lower a little.

Ludwig had changed Ivan's budget.

Bastard had taken a good thirty percent of the medical budget and given it over to ammunitions. At the bottom, in neat writing, was a scribble :

_'The Red Army doesn't get sick—put some of the doctors back in uniform.'_

Toris stared at the paper for a long time, before forcing his eyes away and tucking it within in the others. Couldn't say why he felt a little irritable afterwards.

Had he thought that this Ludwig was the most amicable? A mistake, perhaps.

To people he knew, really knew, to everyone in this household, this Ludwig was harmless—that was true. All one had to do was lift his head and see the way that Ludwig treated Irina, like she was a fuckin' queen, to see the way he had suddenly become Raivis' new idol, to see the way that Ludwig coddled even the cat, and there would be no doubt that Ludwig was a perfect gentleman. Sweet. But all it would take was one look at that little note on that page to realize that, to anyone who happened to be outside the door, to anyone whose name Ludwig did not know, this Ludwig was just as unpredictable and dangerous as the Ivan-Ludwig was.

Darkness.

Maybe...

He forced the thought down.

Nah. Better not to mull on it.

Sometimes, though, when he couldn't help it, when he found his mind wandering, Toris considered that maybe Ludwig, in the right conditions, was more dangerous than Ivan. That if Ivan really _could_ tap into Ludwig's darkness, that maybe it would be a midnight to Ivan's dusk. That horrifying glimpse of it that day, in Ludwig's eyes.

Ludwig was—had been—so nice. So nice. It was the nicest people, perhaps, the ones who were willing to let others take advantage of them, the ones that bit their tongue and put themselves in precarious situations, the ones who were constantly giving and giving and giving, who were the ones that were the most dangerous when they finally snapped.

He might have been right.

One evening, as they sat in the foyer, Ludwig and Ivan were sitting together as Toris scribbled away on some papers, and Ivan, whispering something Toris couldn't hear, had turned Ludwig's attention to the map hanging on the wall. Toris watched as Ivan prodded Ludwig on with another whisper, and Ludwig suddenly stood up.

Ivan smiled.

"What would you like to do?"

About what? Nope; didn't wanna know.

Ludwig looked over the map, one hand in his pocket, and Toris watched as he tilted his head. The swirling of darkness in his eyes was fairly evident.

Suddenly, Ludwig said, "I'd like to redraw these damn borders, is what I'd like to do."

Ivan looked up, leered a little, and only responded, "Well, I'll take that to Brezhnev. Last time I checked, colonels and generals weren't allowed to split up countries."

Ludwig just clicked his tongue, eyes still scanning the map, and heaved a sigh. Toris glanced up from his papers, and for some reason, he _smiled_ at the sight of huffy Ludwig, lamenting the fact that he didn't actually own the world like Ivan told him he did.

Ha—look at Zeus over there, forging his fuckin' thunderbolts. Couldn't throw 'em yet, though, so why bother?

What had happened in Moscow after he had left? What had flipped the switch?

Ludwig was gone.

With a shake of his head, Toris could only return to his work and listen to Ludwig muttering under his breath. It did occur to him, though, that no matter how many times Ludwig looked that map over, never once did his eyes fly over to Germany. Not once did he glance at Berlin.

As if, somehow, Germany just didn't exist anymore.

The skies kept getting more turbulent.

* * *

Restless.

Ivan was restless.

One morning, Ivan called Toris into his office.

Toris noticed immediately that Ludwig wasn't there. Being alone with Ivan, after so long, was a rather alarming sensation. Ivan only ever wanted to be around Ludwig these days, so the fact that Toris found himself standing here alone in the office with Ivan was enough to have the hairs on his neck standing on end.

What had he done this time? His mind had only been half-working lately.

As it turned out, he had done nothing at all.

Ivan just looked up at him, eyes lidded with weariness and looking a little rough, and said, "There's a meeting in Yakutsk. Nothing big, just a few conversations on upcoming drills and the whatnot, changing a few rules here and there. I can't say that I find myself particularly inclined to go. So. I'm sending you in my stead. Just remind them that I don't like anyone fuckin' around with the protocols I've got set in my sections and you'll do fine. Make a good impression like you always do."

Meh—couldn't say he was looking forward to driving a week in this ice, nor was he much interested in these boring meetings, but Ivan was _telling_ him, not asking him, so his decision had already been made.

Of course Ivan didn't want to go. Doing so might mean parting with Ludwig, and god forbid that Ivan spend five fuckin' days without Ludwig licking his boots. Torture, no doubt.

So Toris just said, "Sure."

Ivan fell still, resting his forehead against a balled fist, and Toris observed him a little.

He had gotten so used to seeing Ivan in that constant elation of being around Ludwig that he had almost forgotten what a normal Ivan looked like. Not so love-struck, now, sitting here in his office alone and in a less than giddy mood.

Tired, irritable, loving to wear his uniform and have control but loathing having to actually put in work and meeting hours for it, unshaved and uncombed, clothes wrinkled and collar unbuttoned, brow creased and pale lashes long over his eyes as he squinted, the weather-worn freckles visible in a light dusting beneath his eyes and over the bridge of his nose. The line in his forehead from years of frowning.

Looking his age, without Ludwig here to make him light up like a little kid.

His voice was different, too, but maybe that was just because when Ivan spoke in German all he did was croon and murmur, and when he spoke in Russian he spoke normally. His voice was higher in Russian than it was in German, and yet somehow it was more frightening as well. Ivan was semi-fluent in German by now, but not so much that he could speak quite as eloquently as he could otherwise, and it was always a little strange to hear him muttering to Ludwig, using simple words that most college kids studying a language would have learned in their second-year class, and then to see him turn around, revert back into Russian, and remember how fuckin' _smart_ he was when he started talking.

Around Ludwig, Ivan was a hyper teenager. Alone, he was a thirty-eight year old man with a nasty temper. The shadowed side of the moon.

When Ludwig wasn't around, Ivan was just Ivan, and Ivan was always a breath away from agitation.

Huh.

Ludwig might have become something of a bullet-proof vest for this household, because when Ludwig was around Ivan, there seemed to be a much greater threshold for Ivan's patience and sanity.

"Where's Ludwig?" Toris asked, suddenly, and Ivan ran a rough hand through his messy hair.

"Asleep still."

Unusual.

Another one of those horrible images flashed in his head. Ludwig was probably worn out, alright, maybe after a long day of learning systema that had turned into a long night of something perhaps a bit rougher, and when Ludwig finally did crawl out of bed, he'd be as bruised and bloody as he was when he walked out of the room after a spar. He grimaced a little, and tried to think of other things.

Maybe he should have just kept his mouth shut.

Ivan peered up at him suddenly, the circles under his eyes obvious, and the look he sent Toris was full of almost as much distaste as the images in his head made Toris feel.

"You've been spending a lot of time with him, lately," came the low mutter, and Toris shifted a little, trying very hard to keep still and straight as Ivan stared him down. "Every time I look up I see your mug around him. Why's that? You certainly weren't so interested in keeping an eye on him when that was exactly what I told you to do."

Damn.

The sad thing was that it was true. When Ivan had told him to watch over Ludwig, he had refused. Now that _his_ Ludwig was gone, Toris stayed with him as much as possible. He had lost one Ludwig because of his stubbornness. Losing the only amicable Ludwig left to the Ivan-Ludwig was a terrifying notion.

He couldn't very well say that, though, so he opened his mouth and said, as coolly as possible, "He's my friend."

Wrong answer.

A silence, as Ivan stared up at him, a breathless half-leer on his face, and then he threw back his head, and laughed. A high-pitched cackle, breaking every so often with the effort as his voice hadn't warmed up enough yet for this, sometimes becoming so damn eager that his voice died altogether and just a wheeze came out, and Toris couldn't help but clench his fists and shiver a little.

Ivan's laugh. A terrifying sound.

When Ivan finally spoke, when he finally got his laughter under control, when his shoulders stopped shaking, when he lowered his head and rested his forehead back down on his palms, when he gave a few more chuckles as he tried to gather himself, when he finally _spoke_ , his words stung worse than any punch could.

"Friend! Your _friend_? Ha, Toris! Oh, Toris, you're so—Wh-who would be friends with _you_? You're so fuckin' pitiful, Toris, no one would ever want to be friends with _you_!" Another burst of breathless laughter. "You think he's your friend! Oh, oh, Toris, I can't even—! That Ludwig—oh, god, you make me laugh—that Ludwig would _ever_ be friends with you! Ludwig, as brave as he is, friends with a coward like you! You're a riot, Toris, you bastard, you're hilarious when you wanna be, you know! Oh, I can't breathe anymore, you son of a bitch, you're so—"

Ivan trailed off, unable to speak anymore, and just wheezed out his last few laughs.

Toris, despite the ache in his chest and his trembling hands, just said, weakly, "Ha."

Well. There went his pride. That one had hurt, that much was certain. All he could do was wait for Ivan to stop giggling, and try not to think about it too much.

In the end, Ivan was right. Always was. He was no match for Ludwig, not for Ludwig, and maybe any friendship he had known had been all in his head. If Ludwig had called him friend, once, then the new Ludwig might not mean it quite as honestly.

He was a coward, in one way or another.

Afterwards, when Ivan settled down and shook his head, turning a sneering smile back down to the desk, he sighed a little, and seemed keen to keep speaking about Ludwig.

"Ah, hell. Maybe you should try to be friends with him. He can teach you a couple of things. He's gotten so much better. Can't you see how much he's improved? He'll be everything I ever wanted." Ivan grabbed a pen and started tapping it restlessly on the desk, suddenly looking a bit brighter.

Toris squirmed.

Everything Ivan had ever wanted.

Weakly, Toris managed to whisper, "For what?"

Ivan smiled, almost dreamily, and when he spoke, he neatly dismissed Toris' inquiry, instead murmuring, "It's there. It's right there. I can _see_ it." He reached up, and clenched his fingers the air, as though trying to grab smoke. "I just haven't _touched_ it yet. But I can see it. He just needs one more push. It's there. It's always been there. He just couldn't ever tap into it. But _I_ can get it out of him. Just one more push, and that will be that. I'll have him."

Have him.

"What's there?" Toris asked, even though he really didn't want to know.

Ivan elaborated, far too cheerily and almost breathlessly, "Darkness. It's there, just underneath. Can't you see it, too? It's there. I'll get it. I'll get it, no matter what I have to do. Once he really learns that there aren't any rules anymore. Anymore boundaries. I'll have him." Ivan snapped his fingers, as if trying to signify the last snapping of the restraints in Ludwig's mind. "Can't you see it?"

God.

He _could_ see it. He had seen it more than ever lately, something churning in Ludwig's eyes. Something strange underneath the calm and serenity. Something moving just underneath the surface of the water. Ripples. That look. He could see it, maybe not as well as Ivan could, but he could see it all the same.

He did not want to admit it. The concept was too goddamn horrifying.

"No, I can't," Toris finally lied, and Ivan sent him a look of mild annoyance.

"Ah," Ivan spat, dismissively, "You don't know anything, Toris. You wouldn't ever understand Ludwig's mind anyhow. Such things are beyond you. You can't even comprehend the purpose of the machine, let alone hope to figure out how the parts work."

The machine?

Ludwig was becoming Ivan's machine. For what, he didn't know, and he didn't really want to imagine.

Maybe Ivan could see the potential within Ludwig to wreak havoc on the world, and maybe in some way Ivan hoped that with Ludwig by his side they could become gods. Take over the word. Ascend into legends. Become stories that grandmothers told children to get them to behave so they wouldn't see eyes in the closet.

Toris _knew_ it was risky, he knew he shouldn't, but he just couldn't help it.

He opened his mouth, and said, "I think you'll break it before you get it working like you want it to."

Before, such a comment would have earned him another broken bone or maybe something worse.

Now, Ivan stared at him for a moment, and then closed his eyes.

"Toris," Ivan said, and now he was rubbing his temple in agitation, "You're getting on my nerves. Go. I don't care _where_ you go, just go somewhere. I'm _sick_ of looking at you, I really am. Just go somewhere. Don't be late to that fucking meeting or I'll shoot you. Get out of here. Go on."

Once upon a time, Ivan might have grabbed his collar and smacked him across the face and then kick him out of the room quite literally, and now he just sat there, not even giving the effort to abuse him. Somehow, this was worse. It felt more dangerous now, as if Ivan had become so _detached_ to anything but Ludwig that shooting any one of them wouldn't have been a big deal.

_Shoot_ him? The hell—Ivan hadn't threatened to shoot Toris in ten goddamn years. Ivan had never spoken to him like this, not this, not so coldly and distantly, as if Toris wasn't really there at all. Ivan had always been so angry with Toris, had always screamed at him and fought with him. Had never just looked at Toris and then just shrugged a shoulder.

Maybe Ludwig wasn't protection after all—maybe he would be the crack in the dam. Because now, Toris wasn't even worth the time to knock around, and that was scary as hell somehow. How sad, how _pitiful_ , that he almost wished Ivan would have grabbed his shoulder and shoved him out by force.

Ludwig.

All of Ivan's energy went to Ludwig now, to oiling that machine, to stoke the fire and try to wring every last drop of sanity from Ludwig's head. Toris could see the darkness as well as Ivan could, but Ivan could see past it and was excited by something else. To Ivan, Ludwig had suddenly become everything, because Ivan was everything to Ludwig. To Ivan, there was nothing on earth that compared to Ludwig because, as far as Ludwig was concerned, Ivan had absolute power over everything.

Buncha fuckin' psychos.

This entire household was full of psychos. Ivan was insane. Ludwig was getting there fast. Irina was complacent with Ivan's insanity, so that made her crazy, too. Raivis adored Ivan and Ludwig, knowing full well what they did, and that made him crazier than Irina.

And himself?

Hell, he was the devil's right hand. He knew everything he did was wrong, he knew it, and he still did it.

The others didn't seem aware of the consequences of their actions. Ivan thought he was always right, and so everyone else was in the wrong. Ludwig thought Ivan was always right, and so it was okay. Irina thought Ivan couldn't help it, and so it wasn't his fault. Raivis thought they were allowed to do such things, because the army said they could, and so it wasn't bad.

They lived in their own worlds, with their own rules. They were crazy, sure, but Toris _knew_ what he did was wrong. He knew that there was still very much a broader world with broader rules. He knew everything he did was very much illegal. Morally incomprehensible. And he still did it. They did it because they thought they were right. Toris just did it because he liked to. What did that make him?

Toris was the worst of them all.

If they were sociopaths, then maybe _he_ was the psychopath. They didn't really seem to have much of what could ever be considered a conscience. Maybe Ludwig had had one, not too long ago, but not anymore. Toris did have a conscience, but he just didn't listen to it when he didn't feel like it.

He was the worst.

So he just went to sleep, got ready in the morning, took the car, and went to Ivan's meeting, pretending like he was one of them, and did everything Ivan told him to do. He always did, no matter how many people it hurt.

He was the craziest, perhaps.

At any point in time, on any given day, at any hour, Toris could have taken the car, started driving, and not stop until he was in the West. He could have left. He could have fled. He could have run away.

He didn't.

Because he _was_ a coward—living here was easier. It was easier to have someone do everything for you and just have to do whatever they said in return. It was easier to break rules than it was to follow them. It was easier to hurt people than it was to be patient with them. It was easier to have someone hand him an identity rather than build his own.

Ivan's world was easier.

So he stayed.

Above all of that, though, Toris didn't leave because he was addicted to the power. Out there, he was no one. Here, he was second only to Ivan, and ruled the entire world beneath them. Power corrupted, alright, and Toris was beyond repair. Loved the power, loved knowing that he could do anything at all, and so he stayed.

And that made him the worst.

When Toris came back days later, in the hour before dawn, he shut the door, took off his coat, and walked back inside this house, as though nothing were out of the ordinary. Nothing really was. When he pulled off his boots, a step caught his attention, and he looked up to see Ludwig, walking out of the kitchen to see who was there.

Ludwig caught sight of him, still half-asleep, and smiled.

"Hi, Toris. Glad you're back. I missed you."

They weren't friends; Ivan said so.

All the same, if he couldn't truly be friends with Ludwig, then he could still try to be brothers, even if it had to be with a dangerous Ludwig. Giving Ludwig up, even though it wasn't the same one, was too hard, so he settled for this one instead.

"Oh, yeah?" Toris said with a smile, as he came forward. "You can come with me next time."

Hardly. Ivan would never allow that.

Still, Ludwig smiled at him, subdued and calm and friendly as he came out of sleep, and Toris could see that he was clenching a book to his chest.

"You're up early," he said, and Ludwig rolled his head around, cracking his neck as he kept smiling.

"Couldn't sleep."

Nothing out of the ordinary.

That hit Toris—that nothing appeared out of the ordinary, because Ludwig suddenly looked at _home_ in this place.

That hadn't been obvious before.

Ludwig looked like he belonged here now. Standing there in the dim light, Ivan's shirt slung over his shoulders, hair sticking upright from its time on the pillow, eyes bleary and heavy, pale and sleepy, a serene smile on his face, stance passive and easy-going, and Toris realized that Ludwig looked like he had lived here all along. Like he owned the place. Like this had always been _his_ home. Like that had always been _his_ bed. Like Ivan's shirts had always been at _his_ disposal.

Even in the darkness, Toris could see the pale blue bruise on the side of Ludwig's neck.

Ludwig lived here, now, and it was painfully obvious.

One of them, now.

"What's this?" Toris suddenly asked, perhaps a bit boldly, as he reached out and snatched the book from Ludwig's hands.

If it had been Colonel Müller, he wouldn't have dared, and if it had been the Ivan-Ludwig, he would have gone straight back outside and sat in the car until _he_ was gone. But now it was just Ludwig, and if he was offended by Toris wrenching the book from his hands, then he didn't say anything.

The placid smile stood strong.

Ludwig looked so sure of himself all the time nowadays. So confident. Ivan had stoked him, alright. Not too much longer, and maybe that machine really would sputter to life.

Those horrible images crept into his head yet again, as Ludwig smiled at him easily, and he could only imagine Ivan lying there in the bed, hands behind his head, staring up at a Ludwig that was sitting on his chest, whispering god only knew what, and by the end of Ivan's little pep-talk, it was Ludwig who reached down, kissed Ivan on the lips, and pulled out a gun.

Hell, maybe they just sat upstairs and took turns pulling the trigger to see who was braver.

Maybe Ludwig had spent so much time giving that he decided it was time to start taking.

The wheels were grinding. Just a few more modifications. A few more wires to rip out.

Toris looked down, suddenly, at the book in his hand, and felt a little disheartened. A Russian dictionary. Figured. Not Ludwig. Not Ludwig at all.

Lyudovik.

"Well," Toris began, voice clipped and low as he stared at the book, "I see you're trying to learn Russian."

He flipped it open, for whatever reason, and kind of wished he hadn't.

Ludwig just stood there. Toris was glad he didn't say, 'Well, you wouldn't teach me, so I have to learn myself.'

He should have taken care of Ludwig before. Too late now, and instead he found himself staring into these pages. On the edges of the book, Ludwig had tried to scribble out sentences and words in Cyrillic, and the writing was pretty bad. Awful, actually. Who could ever get the hang of an entirely new alphabet right off? Ludwig did his best. And, like everything else, in the end, Ludwig would get it.

Just letters, practiced here and there.

After a few pages, the scribbles changed. Private little notes that had been meant for no one. The inner workings of Ludwig's head, poured on paper. Helpful language notes mixed suddenly with random thoughts.

Unease.

_'D looks like weird A.'_

_'Home.'_

_'p = r'_

_'Memory.'_

' _Ludwig_ ', in clumsy Cyrillic.

A comparison of Ivan's name in both Latin and Cyrillic.

_'Home, home, home.'_

_'Together.'_

Toris was fully aware then that he shouldn't have been reading these, and yet he couldn't seem to stop himself. He couldn't close the damn book, and kept on flipping. With every page, with every flick of his thumb, the scribbled thoughts became somehow more depressing. More private. He felt suddenly as though he were intruding on something exceedingly personal.

Oh. Ludwig.

_'Learn how to say, 'I'm sorry.''_

_'Forever.'_

_'I can't remember anything. Why?'_

_'B = v.'_

The pages turned. The writing became sloppier.

_'Who am I?'_

_'You promised.'_

_'Liar.'_

The letters were barely discernable now; just angry scratches on the paper. At points, the pen had pierced the paper all the way through. Rage, in written form.

_'Who am I?'_

_'I can't go back,'_ in incorrect Russian.

_'Who am I?'_

_'Liar.'_

_'Who am I?'_

_'Liar. Liar. Liar. Liar. Liar. Liar.'_

An entire page full of that word.

And then, at the bottom of the very last page, there was a great black scribble, as though Ludwig had written something and had been so upset with how it looked that he had tried to get rid of it in a fit of embarrassment.

But Toris could still see the clumsy Cyrillic letters beneath the ink.

' _Ya tebya lyublyu_.'

I love you.

His head hurt.

Remorse, mingled with fear.

With a furrowed brow, Toris closed the book, feeling anxious for some reason, and held it out. Ludwig took it immediately, and Toris had very nearly started backing off. It hit him harder than he thought it would. The realization that Ludwig _scared_ him. Toris could have burst into tears then, had he still been capable of it.

Ludwig scared him.

They weren't friends.

This new Ludwig had little care for friendship, so absorbed in Ivan that maybe there just wasn't room for anyone else up in his head. Ludwig had forgotten Berlin. Ludwig had forgotten Gilbert. The former world was gone to Ludwig. It was hard to reconcile that frightening scribbling with the tranquil smile that Ludwig was still sending him. Knowing what was just under the surface.

Ivan and Ludwig should _never_ have encountered each other. It was just like lighting up gas, and Toris wasn't certain that the Soviet Union itself could have withstood the explosion.

They sat together at the kitchen table afterwards, the book set on the edge, and Toris just glanced at it from time to time, and could feel the creeping tide. The smell of Ivan on Ludwig was unnerving, as Ivan's shirt hung loosely over his skin.

It wasn't fair. Not fair. Ludwig was gone. That little shred of him, that powdered glass, just wasn't enough. Just a little glimmer, in the midst of a vast ocean. Not enough.

Beyond it all, though, maybe Toris wasn't mourning Ludwig for Ludwig's sake. Mourned Ludwig because Ludwig had been the only window into the outside world. Mourned Ludwig because seeing Ludwig as he had been was the only way for Toris to see his past self, to see what he too had once been. Mourned Ludwig because Toris didn't have sentiments and emotions and morals, and had fed off of Ludwig's.

As always, Toris only cared about himself, and for that he mourned Ludwig.

The morning passed, as Ludwig smiled at Toris and Toris just stared at Ludwig longingly.

It was around that time, holding Ludwig's funeral in his head and composing a eulogy, that Toris realized that he had been so sidetracked by Ludwig these past months that he had been forgetting to do his damn job, and make sure that Gilbert was staying well within the boundaries of Berlin.


	36. Borne of Ashes

**Chapter 36**

**Borne of Ashes**

Seventy days.

It had been seventy days straight that his head had been lit up on fire.

Ludwig knew it was seventy days because he had been making a scratch in the back of the dictionary for every morning he woke up to a headache. Impossible to keep track of days otherwise, and when he woke up that morning, feeling that throbbing behind his eyes, he grabbed the dictionary dutifully from the end table and picked up the pen.

Another scratch. Damn thing would be full soon.

Why he counted them, he couldn't say. Made him feel better, he supposed, to have a tangible sense of days and time, something he could look at and use as a guide to the sands, even by counting something as droll as headaches. For some reason, the calendar was incomprehensible. It felt like years, so to realize it had only been months was daunting at times.

Time lagged, but he had sped up, in a way.

Physically, most of the time Ludwig felt great. Stronger every day. Quicker. He felt at his prime. It was only up in his head that he felt wobbly and vulnerable.

He set the book aside, buried his face in his hands, and glanced over at sleeping Ivan. Did he have headaches, too? From the exceedingly content way he was sleeping, sprawled on his back and face turned on the pillow, it didn't appear so. Ivan was sound of mind; not insecure like he was. No need for his head to hurt. Ivan was immune to such things.

Sound of mind?

Something about that thought made him bow his head and smile. Ivan. In bed, safe and sound. Sound meant something different to everyone.

A long moment of letting his head hang, a second of scrunching his eyes shut and trying to force away the ache, and then Ludwig lifted his shoulders and turned his head towards Ivan. His head was pounding, sure, but that didn't stop him from leaning over and kissing Ivan until he woke up. Irritating a soundly-sleeping Ivan had somehow became a favorite pastime of his. Dangerous for most, but not for him.

Ivan wouldn't hurt him. Not him.

A sigh, as Ivan came into consciousness. His hand rested on Ivan's neck, and soon he was staring into sleepy eyes.

"Morning."

A gruff mutter.

Ivan eyed him, blearily, and plopped his head back down on the pillow to make it clear he had no intention of hauling himself out of bed early, no matter how persistently Ludwig ran a hand up and down his neck. Eventually, Ivan flipped over, pulled the blanket over his head, and muttered something incomprehensible under his breath. Ludwig gave up, and let him sleep.

He pulled himself to his feet, leaving the comfort of the bed behind. His bed.

Seventy days.

He trudged downstairs, opened the cabinet in the kitchen, put back a handful of aspirin, and when he turned around, Toris was behind him. Always was these days, it seemed. Ludwig lifted up his chin in silent acknowledgment, managed something that felt like a smile but might have looked more like a sneer, and Toris took a seat at the table.

"What are you doing today, Ludwig?"

Toris' voice seemed as odd as his face did lately. Strained, in a way. Thin. As if he put as much effort into how he spoke as he did with how he looked. Picking tones and choosing words.

Ludwig shrugged a shoulder, and joined Toris at the table.

Ludwig.

That was Toris' most useful aspect, perhaps, in his ability to repeat that name like a parrot and in the process keep a bit of the mist at bay. Funny, though—Toris had seemed considerably more important in days gone by. Passing ghosts.

It took him a while to address Toris further. Sometimes in the mornings, when he woke up, it felt like his brain was cranking up rather than coming to. Mechanical. He stared at Toris without really meaning to.

"What are _you_ doing today?"

Toris just stared back at him.

Finally, an odd, "Whatever you're doing, Ludwig."

Ludwig felt his nose crinkling at the corner, and turned quickly away. His plans, set or no, hadn't ever really intended to include Toris, whether Toris meant to come along or not. His interest in Toris seemed to wane every day. Not really Toris' fault, he supposed.

Toris opened his mouth as if to say more, but was denied the opportunity by heavy footsteps on the stairs. When Ivan finally came downstairs and showed his face, Toris was forgotten like smoke, and Ludwig found himself focused and alert. Toris was only a shadow; Ivan was the sun. When Ivan was in his sight, everything else disappeared.

Toris tried hard these days to get his attention, for whatever reason, and not too long ago that would have made him happy. Now? His enthusiasm wasn't exactly through the roof. In the end, Toris wasn't who his world revolved around.

Brother. Yeah.

It had occurred to him that although Toris was still very much his brother, the sentiment had changed just a little bit. Before, when he had been settling in, Toris had felt like an older brother, one to admire and fear, one to fall back on and seek advice from. Then, Toris had felt like a damn twin. His equal. His other half. The only person out here who understood anything about him. Someone to trust. Someone who could feel what he felt. Now, Toris was more like a little brother. Ludwig was obligated to love him, always would be he supposed, but at times he found himself annoyed by Toris. Irritated and wanting to be rid of him as one wanted to get rid of a blabbering child.

Toris left. Ludwig didn't notice until he came back that he had been gone in the first place. Toris said, 'Hi'. Ludwig heard himself say, 'I missed you', because that was what he had always said. He meant to mean it, but some part of him didn't really care too much where Toris was at any given time. Coulda been days or months or minutes that Toris was gone; he didn't really sense the difference anymore.

Toris was just Toris. Nothing special. Around Toris, everything was quite in order. Dull. Talk about banality. Maybe not too fair, because who could ever really compete with Ivan in a competition of being interesting?

So here they sat.

Ivan passed through the kitchen long enough to brush the top of Ludwig's head with an errant hand, and was gone.

Toris exhaled, and cast his eyes down to the book in Ludwig's hand. For the first time, he offered, "You need some help with that, Ludwig? I know it's hard to learn."

Ludwig wasn't really sure what the sentiment he felt then was, but it wasn't love.

"No," he finally said, "I don't. I'm doing fine on my own."

He wasn't, not really, but he needed nothing from Toris. Not anymore.

Toris sat there for a while, looking a little annoyed, and then he met Ludwig's gaze with another one of those odd looks.

A murmur.

"Feeling Russian already, Ludwig?"

A twinge of pride in his chest, for whatever reason, and he lifted up his chin. Ivan's words from years ago, running through his head.

_'Maybe you were meant to be born Russian.'_

So he just smiled, and said, "Maybe I was meant to be."

Toris' brow crinkled a little, and so did his nose and lip. A look of distaste. Something sour on his tongue. And then Toris stood up and backed towards the door, and left, after spitting out a quick, "Still speaking German, though, aren't you? You'll never be Russian. You were born in Berlin."

_That word._

Couldn't say _that word_. Panic. Slamming doors. Closets.

Toris was gone by the time the shock of hearing _that word_ wore off, so Ludwig heard himself whisper to no one, "I was born _here_."

Maybe he hadn't entered the world here, not here, but he had been born here. That made him Russian, didn't it? Even if he couldn't speak it. Wherever he had been birthed, whomever by, didn't matter. Ivan had made him here. He was from here. This was his house, too. This was his town. Irina was his sister. He lived here. Always had.

A sudden heaviness, as hands fell down on his shoulders. He jumped, even though he knew who it was. No need to panic, not under Ivan's hands, but Toris' careless use of _that word_ had put him on edge.

A nose burrowed in his hair.

"You should sleep later. I don't like getting up so early."

Ludwig found his heart was still hammering too fast to really respond, and he let Ivan nuzzle his hair without saying a word. So relieved, though, that Ivan hadn't heard _that word._ What a calamity it would have brought.

"Feel like learning again?" Ivan asked, and Ludwig quickly nodded.

Anything to take his mind off _that word_ , and when Ivan grabbed his hand and pulled him upright, Ludwig followed along dutifully. He'd rather be knocked around by Ivan's huge fists than hear that fuckin' whispering.

Didn't take long before he got his wish.

Ivan didn't like waking up early, but seemed to come around exceedingly swiftly. No grogginess or lethargy once he positioned Ludwig in that now-familiar stance of systema and started going.

Ludwig had been getting better at it, but felt as if he had slowed down today. Toris' fault. Always was, it seemed. Shaking him up like that.

From Ivan's first move, Ludwig could sense that he wouldn't be able to keep up this time. Ivan was too damn fast. Couldn't ever hit him, and if an opportunity ever did present itself, in a rare moment, he failed to take it because he choked. Uncertainty and apprehension. Ivan wanted him to try and hit him, all right, but Ludwig wasn't so certain that he was actually allowed to.

This time, he couldn't even come close.

"Try harder!"

_That word._

He tried to shake it off, push Toris' audacity aside, and find his balance. Tried, at least. He gave it everything he had, always did, but still he fell under Ivan's strength.

A sharp pain in his nose.

"Faster!" Ivan chided, and Ludwig had only a second to get his brain working again before he figured out that ducking Ivan's fist felt a hell of a lot better than getting smacked by it.

His brain and body didn't cooperate, though, not that day, and he fell shortly after. On the hard floor, he raised up a hand to his bleeding nose, and stared up at the ceiling. No map on this one. No way to look back there.

"I think you broke my nose," he heard himself utter, and Ivan looked down at him with little concern.

"You usually dodge that one."

Broken noses were nothing around here.

Ivan lowered himself to the floor and put himself atop Ludwig, though not out of interest in his broken nose, and lowered his head enough to start whispering. Ludwig found the pain already alleviating. Uncertainty vanished. Toris' words meant nothing.

"You know," Ivan breathed in his ear then, as Ludwig took handfuls of his hair, "I think you look nice like that."

Pride. Let his nose be broken, then, if Ivan liked the way it looked. Once upon a time, Ivan had been irritated at a cut to his face, yet seemed hardly bereft now at something far more noticeable. Ivan loved him.

"Don't worry. You'll get better. Already are. Like a soldier now!"

Ludwig looked up at Ivan, and asked, "Aren't I?"

Colonel.

Ivan's smile was bright. Maybe a little condescending in a way.

"Of course."

A short pause, as Ivan looked him over, and then the smile became a real one.

Excitement.

"I can't wait to take you back out again," was the enthusiastic croon. "We'll throw another ball, how about that? You can go back there and show them all what you've learned. I want them to see how nice you look in the uniform now. Not that you didn't look good before, you know! You just wear it better now, because you walk like me."

Like me.

_—goddammit, Lutz, I wish you could be more like_ me _, it would make everything easier for the both of us—_

He had only ever wanted to be himself and have people be proud of him for it, but being like Ivan was worth the loss of his own personality.

God.

Of the many things that flashed in his mind, one thing stood out above the others.

It was with eagerness that was perhaps inappropriate that he lifted his head off the floor, bumped his forehead into Ivan's, and said, "I want to shoot that man!"

Didn't need to elaborate on who. Ivan knew. He'd only gotten into a confrontation with one man in his time here. Looking back on it, shooting the son of a bitch probably would have felt a hell of a lot better than beating him. Show him a real _fashisty_.

Ivan stared down at him, that smile still on his face, and it seemed somehow that the pain in his nose dulled down even more in his excitement to hurt someone again. Someone who had well deserved it, at least.

"Can we?" he asked, eagerly. "Call another one. I want to shoot him."

"If you want to shoot him that badly," Ivan said, as he lowered his head down to Ludwig's neck, "then we'll just go to his house and I can save a lot of money. How about that?"

Disappointment.

Yeah, they could do that, but that took away the audience. He had a lot of mouths to shut. They hadn't laughed aloud at him, but the sneers and the high brows lingered in his head still. He hadn't fit in then. He liked to think (as Ivan had so often told him) that he owned them now. They couldn't talk back to him now because he was above them.

Superior.

Somewhere during his thoughts, Ivan had started ripping off his clothes in one of those bouts of aggression, and when Ivan flipped him over, clenching a fistful of his hair and shoving his broken nose into the floor, he clamped his jaw shut and took everything Ivan doled out without crying. Superior to everyone else. Not Ivan. The only being on earth that commanded him anymore. A general was, after all, just god to a soldier.

Stepping into the kitchen, shortly after, gathered Irina's immediate attention.

Before Ludwig could even move, she had swooped over and was grabbing his face to yank him forward.

"What happened?" she asked, as her fingers brushed his nose gently.

"Nothin'." His voice was thick and nasally as she pinched his nose shut and forced his head back. "It's not that bad."

Wasn't even bleedin' anymore.

She didn't seem to care much, and behind her, Toris muttered something incoherent.

"Look at you!" Irina griped, as she lowered her eyes and saw bruises here and there. "You're all banged up! What have you been doing?"

Ludwig was fairly certain that he heard Toris snip, gruffly, "Ivan."

His hand twitched down suddenly, only to stop short when he realized there was nothing in his belt.

...yeah, he would let that one go, since Irina still had his face in her hands. Sometimes, though, Ludwig realized that Toris got on his damn nerves. Couldn't remember the last time a simple sentence could get him so riled up.

Seventy days.

He couldn't remember, either, when he had stopped thinking about things before he acted. That jerk of his hand; he hadn't planned that. That had been Ivan's programming. His pride didn't protest against this involuntary rewiring anymore, so neither did he. Easier to do what Ivan had taught him to and just go from there.

Toris stared at him the whole time that Irina poked fingers in his nose, and when she pulled back and clicked her tongue in annoyance, saying, "Ooh! I'm gonna break _his_ nose!" Toris just shook his head and turned his eyes back down to his book.

Ludwig couldn't really figure out what Toris' look was supposed to convey. Maybe Toris was as annoyed with him as he was with Toris. Sometimes, it seemed they stood on opposite sides of a river, and Toris could hardly be bothered to cross as much as he was.

Sure did clear his face though when Ivan stepped into the room.

Irina was the one who spoke first and started berating Ivan in Russian, but her threat was empty enough, because Ivan made it past her and outside without incurring any injury. Ludwig went to follow, but stopped short at the door when he saw Ivan heading down to the trees. Uncertainty held him still, as it had before, and he went to the window instead.

Irina wandered off, muttering under her breath and shaking her head.

Ludwig stood there, watching from afar and feeling so lonely suddenly, without Ivan at his side, and felt the crinkling of his brow. The cat had come out and was rubbing at his heels.

Without really thinking about it, Ludwig held the blind up with one finger and asked, quickly, "Think it would be alright if I went after him?"

Toris looked at him, a little irritably, and finally just shook his head.

"Who knows? Go outside if you want! Why're ya askin' me?"

Ludwig straightened his back, tilted his head, and felt himself give a quick 'hm'.

"Actually," he said, "That's a good question."

It _was_ —why the hell was he asking Toris for anything, anyway?

With that, he lifted his chin, set his shoulders, and headed for the door. He thought he saw a little twinge of hurt or regret there in Toris' eyes, but too damn bad. Shouldn't have been an ass.

That was the last time he asked Toris for anything. Ivan had told him, anyway, that he was above Toris, so by all rights Toris should have been asking him for things, not the other way around. Toris was just Toris. Nothing more.

As he went towards the door, he heard Toris mutter, under his breath, "See ya later, colonel."

Smartass.

He'd have to put Toris in line soon, before Ivan felt it necessary to do so. Toris had gotten mouthier than usual lately. Or maybe he was as mouthy as he had always been, and Ludwig just found himself less patient. Could be. Things irritated him quickly now. Little things, however insignificant, had a way of setting him off if they weren't quite like he wanted them to be.

One day, in one way or another, Toris would be gone, and it wouldn't set him back.

He liked Raivis, but he wouldn't cry if he was gone. He adored Irina, but her absence would not have stopped the world. And he _loved_ Toris, in some way still, but he could live without him. As long as Ivan was there.

He struggled through the snow, and found Ivan back at the forest's edge, peering into the tall pines as he did on occasions. Ludwig started bounding over to him, stopped still mid-trot, and turned his eyes instead to the depths of the woods. No movement from within. No tigers this time, at least not ones that _he_ could see. Ivan saw more than he did.

In the distance, birds chirped. Spring was approaching, slowly but surely.

Ludwig hadn't uttered a word, but Ivan suddenly held out an arm into the air, as if waiting for Ludwig to come close enough to put it around his shoulders. He didn't keep Ivan waiting, and slunk in beneath his hand. A long silence, as Ivan thought about who knew what, and Ludwig thought about Ivan. Always was.

Trees swayed. Creaking and snapping faintly from within the woods.

A great explosion in the distance shattered the silence, and Ludwig turned his head, out to the vast forests.

"What was that?" he asked, perhaps a bit anxiously, and Ivan just sent him a look of patience.

"The river. The ice broke just now. Happens, this time of year. Want to go see it?"

His automatic response was, "Of course," barely audible as his chest clenched up with adoration. Ivan thought he was ready to go in the forest. A compliment, greater than any other.

Ivan took his hand, led him forward, and escorted him past the first great tree. Terrifying and exhilarating at the same time.

They walked for what felt like a hour or so, but might have been far less, until the sound of rushing water became audible. Beyond it, a strange, ominous grinding, as if something ahead was caught in a massive battle. Without really noticing, he clenched Ivan's hand like a little kid, and tensed up his shoulders. Ivan snorted, softly, and kept up his pace.

The river came into sight from beneath a hill, and the bank was covered with melting snow and mud, twigs and pine needles. He fell still upon the incline, and looked on with wonder.

The scent of clean water and earth.

The strange sounds of before were suddenly obvious; in the midst of the vast river were giant ice floes, grinding against each other in the middle of the waterway, struggling against the ice that had not yet broken and fighting for room down the path.

Ivan's breath was suddenly against his ear.

"The deer have to cross, sometimes. If they don't make it before the ice starts moving, then they have to walk across it like this. Try to get over before the ice goes under."

Ludwig shuddered.

He couldn't imagine anything being brave enough to actually attempt to cross those floes, not even the ones that seemed to be drifting so slowly they hardly appeared to be moving. One wrong step, one shift, and it might turn, it might get shoved under a bigger chunk of ice, it might break apart right beneath a foot. Disaster. A horrible way to die, either drowning in freezing water or getting crushed by ice.

A warm hand on his back suddenly nudged him forward. He looked over his shoulder to see Ivan right behind him, and he didn't even have time to open his mouth before Ivan nudged him again and whispered, "Go on! Take a look. It's alright."

Actually, he was quite content where he was, but, like in every thing else, impressing Ivan took precedent over any sense of personal safety. Ivan's commands were meant to be obeyed, whatever harm came to him in the process.

So he edged over. Slowly. He took a step forward, and then another, daring himself to get close to the river, and even though he stood safely on the bank, even though the water was clear of ice a few feet before him, it was still a rather daunting moment.

He was absolutely content making it this far.

Didn't take him long to glance back at Ivan, though, just to make sure he wasn't expected to prove his bravery by trying to jump across the ice. He wasn't sure he'd have the heart for that, and it sounded like something Ivan might have very well asked of him.

Ivan didn't ask him to jump, as it turned out, but he did come out with something else just as frightening.

"How's the water?" Ivan asked, and Ludwig felt his brow crinkling.

Aw, man.

He took a breath, squared his shoulders, and went farther onto the bank. Water sloshed over his boots. Probably cold as fuck, that's how the damn water was, so why Ivan was even asking he couldn't say. Ivan did what he wanted, with no rhyme or reason required. Ludwig leaned forward, peering down at the white water, and thought he saw movement in the reflection beneath him.

Screeching beyond, as ice banged and scraped together.

He stared at himself in the water, and caught a glimpse of something behind him. No time to ponder it, though, as something hit the back of his neck suddenly, dazing him and throwing him off. He lost his balance, tottered down onto a knee, hands falling into the freezing water up to his just below his elbows, and his nose nearly dipped in.

Confusion.

His head ached.

Time slowed down in that instant, as it did in those awful, dragging moments before an attack crept up.

The blurry, wavering reflection beneath him was oddly fascinating, and he just stared down at it for a dumb moment, too stunned to move, breathing through his mouth and squinting his eyes, and then somehow, he couldn't say how, his head was suddenly under the water. He tried to push up, and realized he couldn't. Something held him down.

Probably those fingers clenched in his hair.

It was either the shock of the blow or the freezing water that kept him subdued then, for no matter how many times he tried to get himself up, he couldn't seem to get his arms underneath him enough to get enough traction. Not enough strength to push up when he did get into a good position. Couldn't really move at all.

A long, painful minute of drifting, and then something in his head woke up and he found the strength to start thrashing.

Struggling for air. Fighting for life. Couldn't get to it. No matter how hard he fought, he couldn't get his head above the surface. The iron hand above him gave him nothing. His broken nose, sore earlier from a punch, became sore now from inhaling ice water as his aching lungs gave in to the natural urge to suck in air and got river instead.

His short fight died down then, as the water froze him up from the inside out and slowed him down. The daze set in again, and reality became something far more surreal.

Clear water around him started flashing. White. Grey. Black. A simple array of colors, but exceedingly fascinating ones when they faded into each other and were strewn with dots and stars.

Dancing lights. Lightheadedness. Dizziness.

The river grew quieter; comforting, in a way. The water didn't feel as cold.

Calm.

Somewhere in the midst of the increasing tranquility, somewhere beyond the grey, he thought he herd whispering. Shadows. Movement. Warm hands. The whispering grew ever louder as the grey faded steadily into black.

He felt himself moving, although he was not responsible for it. Hardness beneath him.

Fog. Somewhere back there, in that grey, in the mist, someone had promised him forever.

Together.

Had it happened that way?

He couldn't find that voice again, not the one that he had heard before. New whisperings. The old ones had gone.

A sharp pressure on his chest, a pain in his ribs, and with a great lurch of air and pain, the bright light of his subconscious became the bright light of the white sky and the clouds, and someone was hovering above him. A burst of water escaped his chest, and the veil of fog was lifted.

White.

He came back into the world. The whispering stopped. When his vision cleared and the bright light dulled, he saw Ivan's face. A stupid thought crossed his mind : 'Talk about dying and going to heaven.'

Ivan had pulled him just towards the bank of the river, placing him in shallow water, and sat over him now with knees on either side of him. Warm hands on the back of his neck. Aching. He started coughing, suddenly, as breathing came back into its rhythm and tried to clear the last of the water from his lungs. Ivan lifted his head, ran thumbs over his cheeks, and started whispering again. It had been Ivan he had heard, in that mist.

His chest hurt as much as his head did now, it seemed, but when Ivan smiled down at him, he could feel himself smiling back.

The fuckin' water was freezing again. Not calm like before. The current had sped back up, the noise had come back, and the rushing water felt heavy in his ears.

His mind was hardly functional at the moment, if it was ever truly 'functional' anymore, and yet still, as Ivan pinned him in those few inches of water and held his head above with strong hands, he was pretty sure he had an idea of what had happened. Ivan had knocked him forward, shoved him under the surface and held him there until he stopped moving, and then resuscitated him at the last minute. Ivan's gloves were soaking wet.

Somehow, it was something astoundingly beautiful to him. No one else could have understood it. Only Ivan could shove him to the brink of death and then pull him back. Ivan could bring him back to life whenever he felt so inclined. Ivan could change even death when he wanted to.

Who else could do that?

Beautiful.

Ivan leaned down then, pulling his heavy head up firmly, and kissed him there in the icy river. Ludwig would have gladly sat there all day and let Ivan shove his tongue down his throat if he didn't have to break away to cough more water from his lungs.

The fire in his chest dulled into an ache. Breathing hurt.

Ivan shifted above him, as the coughing fit died down steadily, and left gasping in its wake. Couldn't seem to get enough air. One of Ivan's great hands ran over his face as the other propped his head up, and warmth pressed against his chest. A nose in his hair. A whisper.

"I love you. I swear, I won't ever let anything happen to you. I'll always be there to protect you."

His arms felt like they were made of lead, but he managed to lift them up somehow and embrace Ivan around the back of the neck.

Foreheads butted together, noses bumped, he gasped for air and Ivan kissed him between every breath, cold water dripped from his hair and Ivan's gloves back down into the river, and oh, fucking Christ, he loved this man so much, _so_ much, he would have jumped back in the river if Ivan had asked him to, he would have drowned himself if it made Ivan happy.

Fingers tangled in his wet hair. A final, fervent kiss, and another whisper.

"I love you."

He tried to answer, but the tickle of water in his throat kept him still.

So he just smiled instead.

Sloshing of the river around them, as Ivan suddenly braced his knees and pulled Ludwig back upright. He wasn't light, not in any sense, and yet Ivan still pulled him up like a handbag and threw his arm over a broad shoulder, carting him along quite easily.

As they staggered back up onto the bank, Ludwig finally gathered the strength to rasp, "Did I die?"

Ivan's lips were up against his ear.

"No. You don't die until I say you can."

Ludwig let himself be dragged along, gaze bleary and temples burning, and he leaned his head against Ivan's chest, and could feel the smile on his face. He'd do anything. This man was everything.

Something cold and hard was pressed into his hand, and when he looked down, he saw Ivan's gun within his palm.

Ivan's gun.

"It's yours now," was Ivan's whisper, and Ludwig felt himself clenching it even against the listlessness.

His.

Oh. God help anyone who tried to come in between them. He'd die before he ever let himself be parted from Ivan. Ivan had made him someone. Being no one was a degradation he wouldn't ever stoop to again. The price was small. This pain in his chest was nothing, nothing in comparison to all Ivan had given him.

Ivan _liked_ to hurt him, maybe not always physically, not always in the same way, and maybe Ivan even did it as a way of saying 'I love you', but Ivan enjoyed hurting him. Ivan was a liar. Crazy. He knew that.

Didn't care.

When it came down to it, he liked it when Ivan hurt him. The only times he had ever even felt alive. Being in love was as exhilarating and breathless as those times when he lost his mind.

_That place_ was gone.

The gun was his. Ivan was his.

That promise of forever might have been made at first by someone else, but it was meant now for Ivan.


	37. Water Rising

**Chapter 37**

**Water Rising**

Ludwig was coughing up water when he got home, and if Toris hadn't been so mad and so fuckin' _sick_ , he might have slapped Ludwig on the back of the head and berated him for being such an idiot as to go out with Ivan in the first place. Ivan was just as wet, and it didn't take a genius to figure out what had happened.

Shouldn't have let Ludwig go, just like with Moscow. His pride always got in the way. One of his many faults, probably his worst.

Pride. Sometimes, Toris could only stop and look upon himself and wonder if it had ever really been pride so much as resentment. Resentment towards Ivan, who had found something that was so important to him. Resentment for Ludwig, who had ascended into something worthwhile while Toris still lingered in shadows. Resentment for himself, that he was so _pathetic_ that earning Ivan's attention actually meant something.

Too late, now.

Ludwig couldn't even stand up, he was shivering so bad. The dumb son of a bitch was gonna get pneumonia again, and this time Toris wasn't going to sit there and feed him pills. Ludwig thought he was Russian now, but still couldn't figure out how to survive here.

Yup. It was resentment, alright.

He couldn't worry about Ludwig now, and didn't really want to. Instead, when Ludwig was sat down in a chair, trembling and soaking wet, Toris just cast him a glance from the doorframe, and then turned his eyes back to the phone.

Waiting. Too much waiting. The phone still wasn't ringing.

He'd looked all over Berlin. He'd scoured that entire fuckin' city, searching for a man who was essentially a ghost, and the only conclusion he could come to was that Gilbert wasn't in Berlin anymore. Gone, like smoke. The men he had sent frantically over the wall kept coming up with nothing. The trail was cold. Ludwig's flat was short a person. The Austrian ambassador was where he always was, and his wife was still. Ludwig's roommate was in the same spot. None of them shifted. Gilbert wasn't with any of them.

The only one that might have known anything was impenetrable Edelstein.

Out here, Ivan ruled. Back in the real world, an ambassador was far too high an official to even think of touching, not for people like them, so Toris could only watch from afar and see what he did. Who he called. Where he went. None of it led to Gilbert. The only thing his men had to say about Edelstein were gripings along the lines of, 'This guy is too boring! I swear, he always looks like someone just shot his fuckin' mother.'

Edelstein's misery wasn't what Toris was interested in. Wished he could have beat something out of him, but that was a no-go. Harm to Edelstein or his wife would be too risky, even to _them_ , so Toris looked elsewhere.

And every day that passed with nothing, his stress levels started creeping towards the ceiling. Every time Ivan came forward, Toris jumped, because it was only a matter of time before Ivan found out or just asked, to check in, 'Is he staying put?'

Ivan would know if he lied.

It was six days after Ludwig came home soaking wet, six miserable days, that the phone finally rang.

Toris skidded towards it more than he ran, and he was grateful, more than anything, that there were so many rooms in this house and that Ivan was constantly occupied by Ludwig. He grateful that the phone in Ivan's office had its own private number. He was grateful that Ivan wouldn't pick up the phone offhandedly and hear Toris whispering.

The death of him, surely.

He picked up the phone in a second, keeping his voice a low hiss as he asked, fervently, "Did you find him yet?"

The answer he wanted was not the answer he received.

_"Not yet. I checked all the trains out on the Trans-Siberian like ya wanted. Doesn't look like he's on any of 'em. Last I can find he was in Brno, asking around the train station. I think a guy here knows where he went—"_

"So _shoot_ him!" was Toris' immediate cry. "What the hell am I paying you for? Either he went to Budapest or he went straight into Moscow, so find out! I'm already too far behind him as it is. Take whoever it is out back, get him to talk and then fuckin' shoot him! Hurry up! Call me again when you beat it out of him."

He slammed down the phone, lashed out to kick the leg of the table, and spent the rest of the night stalking around the halls in circles.

Above, he could hear Ivan's silky crooning. Whispering, in Ludwig's low rumble. Those new lovebirds, chattering away to each other with their own private language, even if it was only insanity.

Ludwig's deep voice called out to more than just Ivan. Gilbert's dog whistle.

The phone rang again two days later.

_"Get this! He's not alone. Looks like he made a friend. Got smuggled in through Kyiv. Bad news for you, man. He's in Moscow. Can't find him yet, but I got some info on his buddy. I got a picture. I'll send it to you."_

Toris stood by the fax machine, and waited. His head was killing him. Gilbert had made it to Moscow without kicking the bucket. Yeah, _that_ figured.

The man kept on talking.

_"We've been checkin' every shitty little motel in the city. It's gonna take forever to find him here, you know. Ever try to find an ant in this place?"_

"Just do it," Toris snipped, as he ran his hand restlessly over his hair. "The hell are _you_ complaining about? How the hell you think _I_ feel, huh? You're not the one that'll get it if he gets any farther. I'd have you burn the whole city down if I could get away with it. I don't care _how_ you get him, just get him. Both of them. Soon, I'm just gonna have you shoot anyone who even looks like 'em. How hard can he be to find? He's a fuckin' _albino_! You ever seen anyone else that looks like that? He's gotta be strung out enough, and then that fuckin' hair and pale as he is."

A grumbled, _"You ever been to Moscow? Everyone looks like_ that _."_

"Find him."

_"Yeah, sure."_

A click. Dial tone.

The giant machine began to whir soon after, and the paper started printing. The first thing Toris saw, poking out, was a name. A name he knew well. A photo came soon after, faxed in from the outside world that Ivan pretended didn't exist. That photo—Toris was pretty sure then that he wished _he_ had someone under him whose arm he could break.

That face.

Eduard.

Eduard! Ah, that little fucker! Gone but not forgotten. What were the chances? What were the chances of those two coming across each other? One in a million? More? Fate must have really abandoned him, somewhere along the line. Toris was certain he had popped a vein somewhere in his anger, and he was quick to crumple the paper up and toss it in the trash. Couldn't even fathom it.

Eduard.

Anger? No. This was rage. Fury. Wrath. Whatever the hell it could possibly be called.

This made everything so much more difficult. A dumb Gilbert fumbling around blindly in Moscow had suddenly turned into a dumb Gilbert knowing exactly where they were and having a straight line set before him. Not an easy line, but a straight one all the same. With Eduard, Gilbert could actually make it here.

Oh, god—when Ivan found out, he was gonna kill him. Kill him. It would be him that Ivan was drowning in the fuckin' river.

Every day after that seemed to come far too quickly, as Toris struggled to keep calm and composed around Ivan even as his mind whirred away. Ivan and Ludwig passed by here and there, and Toris waited and plotted. He hung over his map every free minute and tried to figure out where Eduard would lead Gilbert, while Ivan and Ludwig hung over their own. He sat in corners with pen in mouth and tried to pretend he was Eduard. Get into his head and think like him.

Eduard. Still couldn't believe it.

Had to be going through Lesosibirsk, knowin' him. That was where he had gotten away. The closest location Eduard was familiar enough with. Too far away, though. They couldn't have made it there yet. Not in the snow. Not without the train.

So, where were they?

Between Moscow and Lesosibirsk. An entire fuckin' country, and no small one at that.

Sometimes, Toris just wanted to bang his head on the desk until he knocked himself out. Shouldn't'a let it get this far. Why hadn't he paid attention to Gilbert like he was supposed to? He could hear Ivan's voice already :

_'You only had one job! One fuckin' job, and ya couldn't do it!'_

The thing he would hear after that would probably be a bang.

Voices from the hall interrupted his frantic thoughts and made him look up.

A slam. Outside the door, he could hear a strange, strangled gasping. A loud thunk, as someone collapsed against the wall. Toris crept forward, clicked the door open, and stuck his head out.

Ludwig, having another panic attack.

Whispering.

Ludwig was slouched against the wall, sitting on the floor, white as a sheet and cold-sweating, and Toris could see how hard it was for him to breathe. Still, though, he was smiling, and Toris knew why.

Ivan was kneeling in front of him, running one great hand through Ludwig's hair and gripping his neck carefully with the other. Ivan had set the attack off, no doubt, and now it was Ivan who sought to pull Ludwig through it. Must have scared the hell out of Ludwig, one way or another. Probably slammed the door just to see what would happen.

Ivan had been upset enough by the first instance, but now that he had seen Ludwig come out of one relatively unscathed, he might have enjoyed causing them just so he could be the one to say that he had kept watch over Ludwig during.

Toris found his damn imagination running wild again, trying to conjure up what Ivan whispered to Ludwig in the middle of a panic attack and again afterwards.

_'You're so pitiful, aren't you? Can't even breathe without me to help you do it!'_

Something Ivan would say. Something this new Ludwig would believe.

Unpleasant.

Long, uncomfortable minutes, for both Ludwig and himself. On the stone floor, Ludwig's hands trembled. Wheezing. Odd gulps and hisses. When Ludwig's chest unclenched and he could breathe again, what felt like hours later, the first thing he gasped was a fervent, breathless, "I love you."

Ivan beamed. Toris shuddered.

Even now, even in this dry hallway, Ivan still had Ludwig's head beneath the water.

Horror.

If something put a wrench into the gears of that machine, Ivan would kill him. If Gilbert somehow arrived here, and if Ludwig found himself again and went with his brother, Ivan would kill them all. Ivan would burn this entire household down to the ground before he let Ludwig go. All of them, right down to the fuckin' cat.

The next day, when Ludwig walked down the hallway, battered and bruised, Ivan walked beside of him. Toris saw right off—Ivan's cheek was cut. In his belt, Ludwig always carried a gun. Ivan's gun.

That little trickle of blood down the side of Ivan's face, that gleam of metallic light at Ludwig's waist, focused Toris' attention on Gilbert all the more fervently.

He couldn't worry about Ludwig anymore, because Ludwig could survive Ivan. Ludwig matched Ivan. Ivan had wrought this Ludwig, and had done it damn well. Ludwig could outlast Ivan.

_They_ couldn't.

* * *

They had left Moscow behind two weeks ago.

They wandered now on the outskirts, in little towns so small they probably didn't even have names, gathering their bearings as Eduard studied a map nightly with pen in teeth and fingers tapping.

The going was slow. Difficult. Not because of where they were.

Eduard was stealthy to the point of being insane.

Gilbert had tried to open the curtains once, only to have his hand slapped away by an angry Eduard. Couldn't go out once they checked in. Couldn't leave in the mornings without wearing heavy, hooded coats. Eduard stripped the license plate off of the car and bribed people in the street for an exchange every three days. They changed motels every night, whether they left the city or not. Eduard looked over his shoulder every few seconds whenever they walked, and every time he sped up Gilbert could swear that his heart was gonna give out from the adrenaline and fright that came from thinking they were being followed. While driving, Eduard always checked the rear-view mirror and never did anything reckless so as not to attract the attention of the police. If they had to sleep in the car, Eduard locked the doors and forced Gilbert to huddle down on the floor of the backseat. Just in case.

Eduard had looked at him one morning, and muttered, "We need to dye your hair. You stand out too much."

Gilbert did whatever Eduard told him to do, feeling the whole while that Eduard's cautiousness was more for his own sense of security than it was an actual help. He didn't know what Eduard was so goddamn scared of, not exactly, and was happy to keep it that way. Made going forward easier.

Gilbert waited, those weeks, and watched as Eduard carried on without acting upon his earlier intent to find help. Sometimes, Gilbert couldn't help but wonder if maybe Eduard was as all-talk as he was, because for all of his tactics, Eduard never once found the courage on his own to grab the phone and call that woman.

Gilbert had to force him.

This way of living now was making him crazy.

Finally, Gilbert lost his patience one night, stuck in another shitty motel, and asked, "Are you ever gonna call that broad? You talked about it enough but you haven't done it yet. You said she'd help us. Why haven't you called her yet?"

Eduard looked at him for a while, pen tapping away, and it was with obvious reluctance that he scooted over to the edge of the bed and picked up the phone. He held it still though, and made no move to act on anything else.

Irritable as he was, Gilbert found himself griping seconds later.

"Well?" Gilbert snapped, as Eduard just sat there with the phone in his hand. "You gonna call or not? If you're scared, just tell me the numbers. I'll do it."

Eduard stared at the floor for long after Gilbert had shouted at him, finally took a deep breath, and started dialing. Gilbert was glad, because if he had actually been tasked with it, his fingers might have shaken so badly that he would have fumbled every number Eduard tossed at him. One day, his bluffing was going to be called, and he'd have nothing to show for it.

Ringing.

Gilbert could hear the muffled answer.

" _Allo?_ "

Eduard opened his mouth to speak, and actually choked. He lost his voice, sitting there on the bed, and Gilbert was fairly certain that Eduard had looked pretty terrified for a second. Eduard had been the definition of brave until that point.

Who was this woman?

Gilbert leaned forward, as Eduard sat frozen, and hit the speaker button. The voice on the other end was distant. Garbled. Even Gilbert shuddered a little as another coo crackled over the speaker, although he didn't know who she was or why Eduard was so scared of her.

Somethin' about that voice.

_"Allo?"_

Eduard found words at last, and broke the silence.

"Hello, Natalia."

A short silence. Eduard, hands trembling, seemed to be gathering his strength, and then he spoke again.

"Do you remember me?"

Another silence, and then the woman offered her guess.

_"Eduard."_

Eduard smiled, a bit wanly.

"That's right! That's good. You remember. I thought maybe you'd forgotten me."

_"Why no. You weren't German, though, were you? Forgive me if I'm wrong; you can't really expect me to keep up with_ all _of you."_

"Sorry," Eduard said, abruptly. "I've got a friend here that wants in on the conversation."

A vague, foggy explanation, but something was going on between them that Gilbert couldn't see, because she seemed to understand right off.

_"You know, it's funny_ ," she finally purred. " _I just met a German, not too long ago."_

Gilbert sprang forward, mouth open and ready to start asking questions, but Eduard held up a hand, and stopped him short.

"Did you? I'm interested in him. Thought you were, too. How about we help each other a little bit? I'm sure that he didn't make a better impression on you than I did."

_"Oh, but he did. If you're referring to Colonel Müller, at any rate. I think you were only a sergeant, weren't you? Didn't even make it higher than Toris. We've gone beyond petty officers, Eduard. We're almost up into the top ranks now. We'll have a new general, soon."_

A flash of something unpleasant across Eduard's face as he sat up straighter and suddenly quite alert. Alarmed.

Toris.

Gilbert remembered that name somehow, someway. The distant sound of a sewer grate sliding shut.

Her voice came out from the phone, so many miles away and yet close enough to make Gilbert scoot away from the phone as if her damn fingers would start poking through the speaker-holes.

_"You know! When you ran, Ivan was so angry that he put poor Toris in the hospital for two weeks. I sent him flowers, in your stead. Poor thing. The way you left him behind like that."_

Eduard looked so damn pale all of a sudden. A breath away from illness.

That story of Eduard's came back to the surface of Gilbert's mind. Toris and Eduard. The brother Eduard had abandoned once. The only reason Eduard was helping Gilbert now.

Eduard recovered and managed a scoff, and asked, "Were they poison flowers, Natalia?"

Across the desolate lands, Gilbert could only imagine that this woman was smiling.

_"Not all of them."_

Eduard's smile stood strong.

"Kinder than I recall!"

It became suddenly obvious to Gilbert that the pulse in Eduard's neck was hammering so fiercely that it was visible. He looked perfectly composed, but this woman, this unassuming woman who spoke so calmly, terrified him.

Gilbert kept his hands clenched to keep them still. Was it her that scared him or was it that her voice was the first glimpse of really lay in wait for him across the snow?

_"Why are you calling? What do you want?"_

"Help."

_"Getting to_ him _?"_

Eduard nodded—how stupid, not like she could see him, but maybe she knew somehow, all the same.

_"What's in it for me?"_

"Anything!" Gilbert barked out, without thinking, and Eduard reached out and pinched his arm to silence him.

Before she could speak, Eduard tried to regain control of the situation with a quick, "How about getting rid of a competitor? I know you. Isn't that the best thing you can get out of this? Getting rid of someone?"

Silence.

Competitor? Gilbert fidgeted non the bed, irritable and agitated, and wished more than anything that Eduard would just tell him the goddamn truth about everything. Just let him know what he was getting himself into.

Whether or not she accepted this deal, or whether she would ask for more later was yet to be seen. For now, though, she seemed to agree.

_"You call me,"_ she said, as Gilbert's heart hammered away, _"every time you stop somewhere. No matter where. You call me first. I'll help when I can. Don't let him know you're here. No one can help you then. You get_ him _away, though, or we're all dead."_

Eduard's only answer was a cool, "Alright. Alright. Deal."

When the phone clicked, Eduard heaved a great sigh of relief, and turned to Gilbert, looking so pale all of a sudden. Sick.

"Well," he said, a bit shakily, "That went better than I thought! She must really hate your brother."

"That's good, right?"

Eduard just smiled at him, thinly, and the look on his face was strange. As if, somehow, that _wasn't_ good. As if he wanted to say, 'No, we're in deep shit.' Whatever he was thinking, Eduard was afraid to tell him. In a way, Gilbert was glad, because he was afraid to know.

They sat on their beds, avoided looking at each other, and even Ludwig was quiet. Wasn't long before Eduard started drinking again.

The last thing Eduard said, before he went to sleep, was, "I hope you spent as much time with him as you could."

A churn of nausea. Guilt. He hadn't. He had been so absorbed in himself that most opportunities to be with Ludwig had been blown off for other ventures. Living in the moment. He lived in the moment now more than ever, because thinking too far ahead was pointless when he could die any damn day.

And he felt _sick_ now, because the assumed end of Eduard's sentence was, 'Because it's lookin' good that you might not ever see him again.'

Roderich had been right about him all along. Useless.

Ludwig sat still and silent on the floor, and all night long, the woman's voice played over and over in Gilbert's head.

It was around then that he started losing hope.

Ludwig was quiet.

In the morning, before Eduard awoke, he slunk outside into the street and grabbed hold of a payphone, and called Roderich for the first time since he and Eduard had met. Should have called sooner.

He didn't really have anything important to say, but speaking to Roderich made him feel real. Like he wasn't in a different world. Roderich, mutual hatred aside, still made him feel safer.

Even Roderich didn't seem to have the energy anymore to bitch at him, and instead asked, _"How are you?"_

Gilbert's answer was short and simple.

"Bad."

_"How's it look?"_

"...bad."

This time Roderich had no encouragement to offer, and hung up the phone after a few more forced words.

His farewell was a rather dreary, " _Call again soon, Gilbert. Don't stop calling unless you die. But don't... That is... Oh. Maybe you should just come back. Sometimes, I think Ludwig might already be dead."_

No. Not dead. He'd have known, somehow, if Ludwig had died. Wouldn't he have felt something? Not dead, but maybe gone, in a way.

Couldn't say exactly what it was, but Gilbert put down the phone, and felt his own path steadily winding downwards. Sometimes, he felt like he was drowning. Even Roderich sensed it, so far away.

The Ludwig that stood at his side now always just smiled, and offered nothing else.

Berlin was gone.


	38. Flight of Crows

**Chapter 38**

**Flight of Crows**

The end of May.

In the afternoons, water dripped from melting icicles.

Spring.

It didn't bring anything bright or beautiful this year; instead, it brought home something Toris had never wanted, and Ivan's long-awaited opportunity to tap into Ludwig's absolute darkness finally came, but _never_ how Ivan had imagined it would.

And, god in heaven, Toris regretted that he had ever lived to see it.

A mild, unassuming day. Peaceful. Irina came home crying.

She had been out all day. Unusual, yeah, but Toris had been so distracted by the dread of trying to track down Gilbert that he honestly hadn't taken notice until the door clicked shut and she had stumbled right by him. She bolted straight for the bathroom, and Toris really only stopped her because it sounded like she was crying, and Irina didn't cry too much.

He reached out and grabbed her by the arm to hold her still, and he only meant to ask, 'What's wrong?'

Maybe she had been having an 'Ivan moment', remembering the past and thinking strange things as she did. They shared that as well as their hair.

Didn't get the chance to speak; her appearance immediately startled him into silence.

It took him a minute to see, and another to comprehend. The first thing he noticed, if only for the contrast, were the bruises on her face. She was so pale, as pale as Ludwig was, that it was easy to see. The next thing he saw was her ripped blouse, half-hidden beneath her coat. Her skirt was dirty, muddy. Dried blood in the corner of her mouth.

Toris was stunned at first, more than anything.

Who out here would ever have the nerve to lay hands on Irina, knowing who she was and where she lived? He knew the answer before his shaking mind even asked the question, but even so the audacity just seemed outrageous. What had they been thinking? Who did they think they were? Did they think that all of the talk about Ivan was smoke? That the rumors were just that? Did they think their superiors would protect them? That Ivan would just turn aside, helplessly?

Madness.

"What happened?" Toris finally asked, although his voice was so low that she might not have heard him at all.

Distracted as he was by the trickle of blood making its way down her ankle and onto the floor. Barefoot. Why was she barefoot?

She didn't answer him. Just kept trying to break away from him and escape into the bathroom.

Stupid. Why had he even asked? He knew, just as he knew who had done it. Didn't know what to say, though. What to do. What could he say to her? Nothing would have sounded right. What could a man ever really say to a woman after somethin' like that?

He was terrified of calling for Ivan, terrified of his reaction and his wrath, but fuckin' Christ, he just didn't know what else to _do_.

The way she'd been done over.

So he opened his mouth, Irina's wrists still gripped in hands, and cried, "Ivan! _Ivan_!" He never screamed for Ivan, not like that, not here, so he knew it wouldn't be long before Ivan came running. If only to see what Toris had fucked up so badly.

Irina kept trying to break free of his grip, wrenching and twisting. Looked more angry than distraught now, as if Toris had agitated her somehow by forcing her still. He tightened his grip, because if she could get a hand free he had no doubt that she was gonna clock him right in the nose.

Her crying had long since stopped, if she had ever really been crying in the first place.

A low, frightening utter.

"Let go of me."

The look she sent him then nearly froze him up, as piercing and intent as it was. As furious as she was hurt. Hate. As if she coulda set the world on fire as easily as Ivan did.

...hell, she kinda _looked_ like Ivan when she was mad, too. That same expression on her face that so often graced Ivan's. The same crinkle of her nose. The same darkness in her eyes. She wrenched again, harder than ever, and as she did she let loose something close to a snarl. He almost let her go, then, out of fear, but too late; heavy boots clunking down the stairs, dull thuds down the hall, and Ivan came skidding around the corner more than marching.

Only when Toris looked up, it wasn't Ivan. Ludwig.

Ludwig was there first. Were they so alike now that Ludwig heard someone screaming Ivan's name and assumed they were calling him? Those horrible little details. Small things. Ludwig wasn't real anymore.

He stood there, staring at Toris, and Toris stared back at him with hardly any recognition.

Didn't feel Irina in his hands anymore.

Ludwig terrified him. That might have been the first time, though, that he could have said Ludwig terrified him more than Ivan did. Toris knew Ivan, well enough at least. He could sense the changing pressure in Ivan's moods. He could see irritation and annoyance in Ivan. He could tell when Ivan was moody or feeling dangerous. He could see when Ivan was content.

Couldn't get anything from Ludwig. Not a fuckin' thing.

It was as if a phantom had appeared in front of him, and Toris could see him plain as day and yet somehow could only look right through him. A magnetic field; he was there, all the compasses said he was, but you couldn't see him or feel him.

Toris opened his mouth, and faltered under Ludwig's eyes. As much as Ludwig had asked him lately, 'Who am I?', Toris felt the need then to ask, 'Who are you?'

A stranger.

Ivan wasn't far behind, though, appearing beside Ludwig and towering over him with a somewhat frazzled appearance. Ivan and Ludwig were almost the same height, but it usually felt as though Ivan towered over everyone all the same.

Neither of them spoke as they stood there, staring at Toris with wide eyes; not looks of fright, nor alarm, but something more like surprise, as if they couldn't believe that Toris' had had the gall to raise his voice and cry Ivan's name. Toris, who was really just dirt to them.

He never got the chance to speak, and was grateful, because he wouldn't have known what to say. Couldn't say it, not to Ivan.

Ivan's eyes fell upon Irina, and Toris saw the first stirring of a very real alarm as his brow scrunched. A sharp inhale.

Hard to illicit, from a man like Ivan.

Ludwig still seemed thoroughly calm, even as Ivan bolted forward and shoved Toris aside to grab Irina. Probably bruising her more, the way he clenched her upper arms within his great hands.

Toris glanced back, to where Ludwig was still standing rather casually. Unfazed and perhaps a bit perplexed. Just a light lift of his brow and a tilt of his head, as he tried to process this information and figure out what had happened. No panic or anger like Ivan. Curiosity. Took Ludwig a lot longer to _get_ it than Toris had expected, but maybe that was the lingering part of Ludwig that had been naive and certain the world wasn't a terrible place. The innocent side of Ludwig, the last shred of him, just didn't understand.

Ivan was getting frantic. He had Irina's wrists now, and shook her, voice high-pitched as he cried, "I _told_ you! I told you! Didn't I tell you not to go out alone? Didn't I? Why don't you listen? I _told_ you!"

That wasn't fair—Irina couldn't live cooped up inside a house her entire life. Not her fault. Ivan's, for putting her into an unavoidable situation. For knowing those men were trouble and not putting them into place long before. It wasn't her fault.

She didn't utter a word as Ivan shook her. Just stared up at him, giving him that same terrifying look she had shot Toris. Ivan didn't scare her. Never had. Sometimes, Toris was reminded that the same crazy man had created the both of them. Everything that was in Ivan was in Irina too, somewhere. If she had had the power that Ivan did, maybe she would have tried to rule the world, too.

When she looked like that...

Ivan's wrath didn't last long, though, and it was honestly the most emotion Toris had ever seen Ivan express, aside from anger, when he shook his head, lost his voice, and pressed his forehead down into her collar. As if, in a way, it had been _him_ that had been hurt.

Toris couldn't really say if Ivan felt things like normal people did, but there was no doubt he was feeling something right now. Irina had raised Ivan, as best she could. She was the only person on earth that Ivan really owed anything to. In return, he had tried to protect her from the world and things he found unsatisfactory.

Ha! Both of them had failed so miserably. Ivan was a train-wreck and Irina was just as vulnerable to the world as anyone.

Toris happened to glance back at Ludwig, then, and saw something interesting.

Understanding.

It was then, when Ivan seemed in distress, that it finally seemed to click in Ludwig's head. Toris observed quietly as Ludwig looked at the bruises on Irina's face, then down at the blood on her leg, and back up. It was clear then that Ludwig finally understood. It had clicked.

And, oh, Toris regretted he had ever seen that, either.

Somehow, someway, even as Ivan clutched Irina and as Irina stared up above his shoulder rather blankly, it was Ludwig far in the back that kept Toris' eye. The way Ludwig _looked_. It hit Toris then, so suddenly, so harshly, that he could _see_ it. That abstract, intangible thing Ivan had spoken so breathlessly about. He could see it. It had always been underneath the surface, but now it was there in the open. It was there. It was out.

Darkness. Ludwig's darkness.

It was silent, but Toris could see it. Ludwig stood still at first, completely immobile and frozen in place, that curiosity replaced with astonishment, his eyes wide and horrified and stance loose and weak. Barely breathing.

Then, the dark water stirred. It was subtle, at first. A clench of his fists at his sides. The furrowing of his brow. Quickening of breath and the tensing of his shoulders. Clamping of his jaw.

A ripple.

Then it was obvious. The bursting of a storm in his eyes; dark. His clenched fists twitched. A tint of red on his face. Narrowed eyes. Dilated pupils. Pulse racing in his neck.

A wave.

Toris could only stand there at the ledge and watch the shore below. Nothing would shut those gates now that they were open. No point in even trying. The worst part of it all was somehow being forced to wonder if Ludwig actually cared a little about Irina, or if Ludwig was so angry now because some part of Ivan had been touched. If Ludwig's nerves were grated by Irina's ordeal or because Irina in distress made it possible that Ivan was only human, too.

To Ludwig, Ivan was untouchable. God. Irina was held up on that same pedestal, because she was Ivan's sister. Blood. A vulnerability in Irina could mean one in Ivan. If Irina could be hurt, then so could Ivan, and that probably didn't make a goddamn bit of sense to Ludwig.

When Ludwig's wrath finally broke, when his teeth ground and his fingernails dug into his palms, when he turned and kicked open the door so hard that it nearly broke, when he stalked off on foot, somehow Toris knew.

That look on his face.

Ludwig was out to avenge Ivan, not Irina. Ivan had been done wrong. Ludwig set out now to make it right. In Ludwig's head, maybe he couldn't be a god, but he could service one.

The door swung on the hinges. Wind blowing from outside.

Ludwig was gone.

Toris gaped at it for far longer than he would have liked to admit, reluctant to follow. Didn't really want to see what Ludwig's wrath looked like. Didn't really want to leave him alone, either, though. Ludwig was bold, always had been, and it had gotten him into trouble so many times before.

He finally found the nerve to lift his foot, but was a step too late; Ivan had already bolted to the door and was running down the drive.

Ivan didn't run very often, heavy as he was. Would have been comical, perhaps, if it had been in any other circumstance, to see stocky Ivan bolting like that. Not funny now; seeing his hair whipping behind him and his coat billowing spurred Toris into a sprint behind him, because Ludwig had gone off on his own with a clouded head and no experience.

The town was quiet beyond the road.

The trees swayed. Here and there, patches of snow and ice that refused to melt.

An explosion.

Shots, in the distance. Echoes in the silent town. Birds flocked out of the trees in droves, squawking and screeching. Toris was sure his fuckin' heart was gonna give out from the panic.

Another shot.

Toris didn't remember exactly when he started running like he was, but he clearly remembered that he had outpaced Ivan for once, leaving him behind, sprinting so quickly that he skidded in patches of ice and still managed to keep running. Adrenaline spurred him on, even though he really didn't want to know what lay ahead.

Another corner, another street, another skid, and suddenly Toris was in front of the KGB office, just a block away, with wide eyes and a red face. His chest heaved from the effort; an ache in his side. Couldn't hear anything beyond his own breathing and the blood pounding in his ears, but it might not have mattered.

Silence. Utter, unbreakable silence.

Oh, Ludwig. What had he gotten himself into? Why couldn't he have waited?

Blood. The first thing he noticed, on the open door.

Ivan came trotting up behind then, panting and wheezing, and he fell back far behind Toris. Toris looked back at him, waiting for Ivan's wrath, but was shocked to see Ivan an emotional mess for the second time in one day. A look of helplessness. His hands were shaking. Toris wanted to call to Ivan, to spur him on and get him going, because _he_ didn't want to be the first one in, but he didn't even try. Ivan just stood there in the street, breathing through his mouth and drops of sweat running down his face, frozen in place, and it struck Toris the look in his eyes.

Fear.

He hadn't ever seen that from Ivan. Hadn't known it was even possible.

Stuck there in place as Ivan was, staring at the office helplessly and clearly unable to move, Toris realized that he would be forced to initiate and be the one to go inside. Ivan was out of commission.

The door to the office hung wide open, swaying to and fro in the breeze. Dots of red against the white paint. Everything was silent. No noise from within. Toris crept closer, hand upon his gun the whole while as he tried to keep from shaking. Had the town ever felt as desolate and frightening as it did then, with no one around and a lone door creaking back and forth?

The birds had all gone.

Another step, and another horror. From the wide open door, there on the ground, jutting out from the threshold and onto the sidewalk, there was a pale, unmoving hand, flecked with crimson.

He glanced up. A spatter of red on the frosted window.

Toris turned his eyes back down to that pale, unmoving hand, an unspeakable fear within his chest, and could only _pray_ that it wasn't Ludwig's. Oh, god, let it be _anyone_ but Ludwig. Ludwig, bold and fearless, who had marched into a KGB office and had maybe gotten more than he bargained for. Like he had once before.

Ivan was staring at that hand, too, from where he stood, and it was obvious that he was thinking the same thing, whether he would admit to himself or not. He lifted his foot in the air to take a step forward, and froze up. Steadily, Ivan fell still again. Toris hadn't ever seen him look so damn uncertain and anxious.

The hand did not move.

If anything had happened to Ludwig... Christ, Toris couldn't even fathom the consequences. Ivan would destroy the world from the inside out.

Ivan found his footing suddenly and rushed forward, and, absurdly, Toris thrust out his arm and pushed it in front of Ivan's chest, stopping him short. Ivan was still staring at that hand, unblinking, and actually obeyed when Toris shoved him a pace backwards. Never in his life had he had the nerve to take charge of Ivan like that, and he only had the bravery to do so then because he was delaying what was potentially his own inevitable demise.

If that was Ludwig's hand, then Ivan would kill them all.

The door hinges squeaked as the wind rocked it all the harder, and suddenly there was a footstep from within the building. Toris jumped up straight, jolted with adrenaline, and lifted his gun with his right hand while holding his left out behind him towards Ivan to keep him still. Another step, and another, and with every one, the sound was getting closer to the door. Toris shot a quick glance back at Ivan to make sure he was staying put, but he seemed to be deaf and dumb, and still stared at that hand.

The footsteps were approaching.

Toris squared his shoulders and started creeping towards the open door. Would he be the one that would have to try and avenge Ludwig if he had been the one to fall there in the door? Couldn't stomach the thought.

Another hand suddenly reached out from within, the first sign of life since they had left the house, and grabbed the door-frame. Toris stopped in his tracks, held the gun in both hands, aimed, and prepared to shoot.

A boot slid slowly onto the sidewalk. A click, as Toris cocked his pistol.

Oh, Ludwig, what the hell had the stupid little son of a bitch been thinkin'? Ludwig was so goddamn stubborn, so fuckin' easy to rile up, so fearless—

Gold, as the white sun lit up a tuft of hair.

Ivan made no sound. Didn't move, and Toris didn't either. Funny; he spent most of his time shaking and sputtering around Ivan, but when it came down to it, when the gun was in his hand, when he had no choice but to focus, he was always steady as a rock. Never wavered. Why couldn't he be like that all the time?

A second boot joined the first, and then the man was outside in the light. Toris' gun dropped down like lead, and so did his stomach.

It was Ludwig.

Ludwig. Ludwig was alive.

The relief came upon him so strongly that he thought for a moment that Ivan had ran up and punched him in the back of the head. Ludwig was alive.

Toris stumbled in his tracks as he tried to move forward, lightheaded and dizzy at the sense of elation. Relief. Relief not so much for Ludwig, but for them. Relief that Ludwig hadn't met an ill-end and in doing so cause theirs. Relief that Ivan wouldn't fly into a rage and shoot them all dead. Relief that Ludwig being alive met they would continue to be alive as well.

Relief.

Ludwig came out fully into the street, lifting his head slowly as if he didn't remember where he was, and when he turned his eyes towards Toris, Toris could not help but shudder at the sight of him. Ludwig, his platinum hair lit up white in daylight, his pale skin spattered with blood, stood there for a bit, looking here and there without recognition. Drops of red stained his collar and ran down his neck, flecked his cheek and forehead, tiny specks of blood in his hair, and even his boots were spotted.

Covered in blood.

Ludwig took a heavy step towards no one, and when he turned his eyes towards Ivan's direction, his whole body slumped as though he had not slept in years.

Toris waited for Ivan to react, because he was too cautious to go near this dazed and dangerous Ludwig, but Ivan still just stood there, staring at Ludwig with an expression that was indescribable. Awe. Ivan had been presented with the possibility of _losing_ Ludwig. To have him back, standing here before him, was no doubt overwhelming.

Ludwig wandered back towards the sidewalk, looking so lost, and eventually, through his mindless turning and twisting, his eyes met Ivan's. A quick, lopsided smile, and the contact was broken as soon as it had been made, when Ludwig turned again and started walking towards the buildings. Ludwig's brain was trying to wake up, but couldn't seem to.

A footstep behind him. Toris thought Ivan had come out of his stupor at last, but one step was all Ivan managed. The look on his face, though, had certainly woken up, and it occurred to Toris, somewhat reluctantly, that a Ludwig covered in blood was probably, to Ivan, the most beautiful thing imaginable.

Silence.

Ludwig was as white as a ghost, and his eyes were distant. Despondent. He stood there, unmoving and unblinking, and Ivan stared at him the whole while. A terrible moment of immobility, and then Ludwig suddenly fell back, leaning against the brick wall of the office, sighing. He found Ivan's eyes again, and it was with a frightening, breathless smile that Ludwig said, simply, "I took care of it for you."

Was that Ludwig's voice? Barely audible over the wind.

Ludwig slid down to the ground then, back up against the wall, and buried his face in his hands. Toris, too alarmed to move and too disheartened to speak, watched as Ludwig sat there on the cold sidewalk, murmuring incoherently to himself against his palms, and Toris could see the uncontrollable shaking of his shoulders. He was crying, perhaps.

Finally, mercifully, Ivan regained control of his muscles, and came forward, falling to one knee before Ludwig and leaning in, whispering, "Are you alright?"

No answer. Ludwig continued to mutter to himself.

Toris, feeling suddenly restless, un-cocked his gun and replaced it in its holster. There was no more danger here. He didn't need to look inside the office to know that. He could smell the fuckin' blood, all the way out here.

Ivan reached down and took hold of Ludwig's collar, forcing him to look up. And Toris realized that Ludwig wasn't crying at all. He was laughing.

Ludwig was laughing.

Still huddled there on the sidewalk, Ludwig threw his head back against the building, fucking laughing, Ivan's hands in his shirt, and Toris was quick to correct himself. It wasn't laughter so much as it was cackling. Giggling.

Toris knew, then. The Ivan-Ludwig had come out, and he probably wouldn't go away again. Ivan had spoken so long of bringing out the dark side of Ludwig, and here now he sat.

It took a while for Ludwig to look at them and really see them, even as Ivan knelt there before him, and when he finally did, it was Toris to whom he turned his eyes. A shaking hand was thrown up, carelessly, and Ludwig said, through dying laughter, "They didn't even look at me." Another round of giggling. "Didn't even see me."

Ivan plopped a heavy hand suddenly down onto shaking Ludwig's bloody head, and their gazes met for the first time with comprehension. Toris could see, in the way they watched each other without uttering a word, that even now they were communicating.

Toris heard Ludwig mutter again, "I took care of it."

Ivan's hand fell, smearing the drops of blood on Ludwig's cheek, and Toris left them there to walk over and peer into the office. Wished he hadn't. Found there exactly what he had expected. One of the officers was below the desk, the first to fall apparently, and the other had tried to make for either the door or Ludwig's gun but hadn't gotten far, falling there in the frame.

An unpleasant sight. Messy.

All the same, Toris tread inside, just enough to poke around the desk for the office key, stepping over puddles of blood and bits of matter. Didn't take him long to find the key, something he would always be grateful for, and retreated, kicking the officer's hand out of the way as he went.

He could hear Ivan and Ludwig crooning to each other out in the street.

Toris tested the key quickly to make sure he had the right one, tucked it into his pocket, turned the lock, and shut the door behind him. Ivan was already well off in the distance, dragging stupefied Ludwig along. Toris trotted behind, glancing over his shoulder to make sure that there was no one trying to be curious. The blood-spattered window should have been enough of a deterrent for even the nosiest Mirny residents.

The walk to the house hadn't ever seemed as long as it did then, and when they finally got to the door, Ivan just shoved it open and quickly deposited Ludwig down on the floor. Toris waited for something, anything, but Ivan just stood there, and Ludwig just sat there. How strange, to see them both so motionless. In the end, Ivan drifted off to wherever Irina was, and Ludwig just stared at the floor, breathing so shallowly that he didn't appear to be breathing at all.

What to do? Ludwig scared him.

And yet, as Ivan had vanished, it was Toris who was forced to face his fear and kneel down to grab despondent Ludwig by the arm and pull him to his feet.

Ludwig didn't acknowledge him, not for the rest of the night, not when Toris stripped him of his bloody clothes and doused him with water, not when Toris carefully and cautiously grabbed soap and scrubbed the blood off, not when Toris rubbed his hair dry with the towel, not when Toris removed the bullets from his gun, and not when Toris led him to the couch and sat him down.

In a trance, it seemed.

Later on, when Irina was presumably asleep and Ludwig was too, Ivan appeared, grabbed his coat and went to the door, and Toris followed him, knowing what came now. Cleaning up the damn mess.

The sun was low in the horizon, bathing the town in pink and orange. Ever-green pines tall around on all sides. Pretty, if Toris hadn't known what was in store for him.

No walking this time; Ivan went straight to the car, and tossed the keys in Toris' face.

"Thanks," he griped, without thinking, but Ivan was too far out in space to even hear him.

He had gone off to grab empty gas canisters and toss them in the back.

Plopping himself down in the passenger side, Ivan crossed his arms over his chest like a bratty kid, scowling out the window and not uttering a word. Not that he needed to. Toris knew well enough the procedure by now, and drove right by the KGB office to go to the petrol station instead. It might have been suspicious to be filling up numerous cans of gas, but, Toris supposed, that was one of the great things about Siberia; everyone minded their own fuckin' business and liked it that way. It was better not to know sometimes.

The car stank of petrol so strongly that Toris' head starting pounding, but Ivan didn't seem bothered.

When they pulled up in front of the office, Toris swept the street with a careful glance, and, seeing the coast was clear, he stepped out, and unlocked the door. Ivan sat there still, pouting and looking foul. Woulda rolled his eyes, if Ivan weren't so irritable. What? Did he think Toris would just do it all by himself? Hardly, and he turned around and stared at Ivan until Ivan finally hauled himself out of the vehicle, kicking the car as he went, and stomped inside.

A look around, and Ivan hunkered down and started working.

Toris popped open the trunk, looked around again, and let Ivan's brute strength do the heavy lifting. Well...not _lifting_. Ivan just grabbed up boots and hauled the men out like one hauled out a leaking pile of garbage. When he chucked them into the car, there was no care given whatsoever. Couldn't really fault him too much for that—when it came down to it, Toris had always just done the same. Anything to touch them as little as possible.

Toris just stayed silent and listened to Ivan curse to himself as he slammed the trunk top down over and over again, shifted the men around some more, slammed the trunk again, unsuccessfully, and then he got mad, like he always did, and slammed the trunk so fervently that something broke, on either side, to give way. All the same, it clicked shut.

Ivan stood there afterwards, seemingly torn about what to do next, and Toris knew that it was because he was reluctant to go back inside and scrub blood off of the walls and floor. Dirty work and Ivan didn't mix. He thought himself above that.

Someone came walking down the street later, and when they glanced over unsuspectingly, Ivan stomped his foot and shrieked, in a shrill, terrifying voice, "What the _fuck_ are ya lookin' at?"

The poor soul literally ran off, as fast as they could. Out here, everybody lived by the 'I didn't see a thing' rule. Survival.

Ivan glowered at the sidewalk for a long while, finally heaved a sigh through his nose, curled his lip, and turned to barge huffily back into the office. Toris followed dutifully, as he always did, and kept a fair distance from Ivan the whole while. Agitated as he was.

Ivan stared at the spattered ceiling, brow crinkled, and Toris rummaged for anything he could use to start scrubbing. Small hand-towels. Soap. That was all there was. Ivan took up his towel testily and snappishly. His 'cleaning' movements were just as jerky; irritable, smudging circles on the wall, smearing blood more than he cleaned it.

Toris didn't say a word. Thinking of Ludwig, as he was. That _thing_ that sat at home. Shouldn't call it Ludwig anymore. But what, then, was there left to call him? Ludwig already answered to Ivan's name. That thought made him scoff aloud, despite himself. Ivan didn't seem to notice, having finally resigned himself to the fact that he would really have to do some dirty work for once in his life.

The smell of it was overwhelming.

Toris glanced upward, and felt a rare turn of his stomach. Took a lot to phase him, much as he had seen and done, but brains sure did get to him sometimes. He had always been quite grateful that Ivan was a clean shot. Ludwig should have taken that lesson to heart.

How were they gonna clean the fuckin' ceiling? Stand on the desk, no doubt, and move it along. He would have to do it. Ivan wouldn't get up there and have bits of matter falling down on his head. Not Ivan, not when there was someone else to do it for him. Even though Ivan's creation had made the mess.

They carried on. The sun went down. Stars came out.

Ivan just muttered and cursed under his breath the entire time, sometimes pausing to run a hand over his forehead, squint his eyes, and hiss air through his teeth. Not nauseous, certainly, but maybe feeling sick in his own way. Not because of the blood so much as Irina, no doubt. Or it could have been something else. Overwhelmed, perhaps, by the strength of Ludwig's capabilities and how quickly he had brought them out. Dismayed that it hadn't been him alone that had made Ludwig snap. Having to share the victory with these dead men.

An entire, awful day of cleaning.

Toris was tempted to say, 'Let's just burn the goddamn thing down', but he already knew what Ivan would say :

'People are cheap; buildings aren't.'

True enough; Ivan would have had more paperwork to fill out at the destruction of a KGB office than he would with the mysterious disappearance of two officers. Men were easily replaceable. Buildings took time to rebuild.

When it was finally as good as it was going to get, Ivan threw his towel on the floor, stood up straight, and said, "Come back and bleach it all tomorrow before someone stops by to be nosy."

Exhausted, Toris just nodded his head.

Toris gathered the towels and any other blood-soaked articles and tossed them in the backseat of the car, and Ivan was more than happy to crank the car up and get the hell out of the street.

Toris looked over his shoulder as they left the town.

They drove out into the middle of the long, desolate, muddy road, found a gap in the trees, and backed the car up. It was dark and isolated. Uninhabited. Another thing that was great about Siberia when your lifestyle sometimes led to extra 'baggage'. They popped the trunk, Ivan pulled the officers out rather unceremoniously, dragged them down into the trees, and tossed them into the first clearing he saw. The forest was soaking wet from melting snow, so no worry about starting a wildfire.

Toris took his time walking down into the forest, the cans of petrol heavy in his hands.

Getting rid of bodies was the worst, especially like this. Probably shoulda just chucked 'em down into the sulfuric diamond mine pool down below. Too late now; Ivan had snatched a can from him and was already splashing the gas. Toris pulled out his lighter and clicked it, absently, and waited for Ivan to back off before he lit it up.

Ivan looked down at them for a good while, no doubt wishing he could kill them all over again, and finally stepped off. Toris lit up one of the towels, and tossed it forward.

The dark, blue night was lit up orange and red.

It went up in flames, like it always did, but that wasn't the hard part. The hard part was keeping it stoked for an entire damn night, because that's how long it usually took to even get it to the point where it didn't look human anymore. To get it to just ashes, another day was needed. Cremation was a lot harder than it sounded.

An hour passed.

The flames weren't so high now, and Toris had wandered off a bit to sit on a log and keep well out of the wind. Couldn't stand the smell. Ivan stood watch, at least for a while.

When it must have been midnight or so, Ivan got bored, like always, and couldn't hang around long enough to where the rest of the cans of gas would be needed. Not a fun experience for him, so one he didn't need to suffer. Instead, he started digging around for the car keys, and Toris knew right off he would be left to this task.

The smoke billowed up above the trees. Wildlife had fled.

"Keep an eye on it," was all Ivan said then, as he started walking to the car.

Irritation.

Going home to coddle Ludwig, no doubt, having no qualms about leaving Toris in the middle of the fuckin' forest and forcing him to walk all the way back into town at dawn. This was Ludwig's damn mess, and therefore it was Ivan's, because Ivan had created this Ludwig as he was now. Not _his_ job. Ivan should have stayed.

Toris glanced over his shoulder, at Ivan stabbing the key into the lock, and he called, a bit sharply, "You can at least come pick me up in the morning."

Toris realized then that he was getting mouthier, and the only explanation he had was that he wanted Ivan to snap at him and punch him in the face. Anything to get a reaction out of him. To not be ignored. He was practically inviting punishment, writhing around in pathetic misery as he was, and still, no matter what he said, Ivan just _wouldn't_.

No go.

Ivan muttered something under his breath, got into the car, slammed the door, and was gone in a minute. Toris rested his chin in his palm, back to the fire, and stared off into the trees.

He could already see them in his head. Ivan grabbing Ludwig and carrying him upstairs, whispering to him how wonderful he was, how brave, how fuckin' _whatever_ —he was sick of it. Sick of Ludwig always being better without trying.

Ludwig had killed; Ivan went to him now, because Ivan had at home exactly what he had always wanted. A Ludwig with no restraints. A partner, as it was. An equal. If Ivan walked up to a mirror right now and put his palm upon, it would have been Ludwig's bloodstained hand that touched his from the other side as they smiled at each other.

Toris lit up a cigarette and turned his eyes back to the flames, and wondered how much longer it would be before Ivan was burning all of them.

Ivan didn't need them anymore.

Ludwig, spattered with blood.


	39. Devil's Call

**Chapter 39**

**Devil's Call**

It washed off well.

Maybe it couldn't be scrubbed out of Ludwig's mind, but the stain of blood eventually came out of his clothes.

Toris watched as Ludwig sat there on the bottom stair, and gazed blankly ahead at the front door. Didn't move much. Every so often, Toris walked by and leaned down close enough to see if the pulse in Ludwig's neck was still kicking. It was, of course, and Toris lingered only long enough to notice the scent of soap in Ludwig's hair. Too scared of him to hang around much longer.

Ludwig didn't speak. Staring, for hours on end. He had been that way since Toris had trudged in through the door in the early morning. Had he been there all night?

Toris stripped down, showered to remove the smell of smoke and sweat and stress, and when he returned, Ludwig had still been there.

No time for rest; now it was time to go back to the office and bleach it. And then, again, back to the woods to check on the state of the cremation. He wouldn't sleep for another day, that much was certain. One of the longest, most exhausting days of his life.

But not the worst.

Another noon and sunset had come, and stars were appearing again when Toris finally came home for good, stinking worse than he had the first time. Everything was finally taken care of. The office was pristine and stank of bleach. The pile of ashes in the woods was unrecognizable as anything that had even once been alive.

And fuckin' Ludwig was still sittin' there.

Everyone else was out of sight.

Ivan had cooped Irina upstairs in a room, disappearing along with her as he had been since it had happened, and Toris would rather not know what they were doing. Fighting, no doubt; every so often, he could hear a shrill shriek from either one of them, and it was probably Irina's way of trying to regain a little control as she screamed at her brother. She was trying to go about life as normal, but he was her obstacle now.

Ivan couldn't seem to really get over it.

As far as Irina was concerned, it was over and done with. She had been over it the moment that Ludwig had come home covered in blood. Her anger and frustration were now aimed at Ivan, who wouldn't _stop_. Ivan had to be right about everything, had to have everything the way he wanted it. Irina had inadvertently disrupted his routine, and he couldn't seem to let it go. If he didn't stop soon, Irina would be the one to pull a gun on him. At this rate.

Toris did as best he could to make sure Ludwig's head stayed above the water in the meantime. Had to force him to eat. To sleep. To move. Otherwise, he just sat there, staring.

Raivis came to him in the afternoon the next day and asked, "What's wrong with Irina?"

Toris just stared down at him. What could he say?

"Don't worry about it," he finally said. "It's nothing."

"Is Ivan okay?"

"Ivan's always okay."

"What about Ludwig? Is he okay?"

Stupid brat couldn't even communicate with Ludwig.

"He's fine. Just leave him alone for a while, won't ya?"

Raivis did the opposite, as Toris could have expected.

Toris saw them once, Ludwig perched there on that bottom step and Raivis before him, kneeling down and staring at Ludwig quite intently. Ludwig stared right back at him, through loose bangs, and the shiver that overtook Toris then had no name. The way they just _stared_ at each other. Didn't speak. Didn't move. Just stared. Raivis looked at Ludwig the way Ludwig looked at Ivan.

Horror.

He didn't know how long they stared at each other like that; a few minutes and he had already turned tail and fled. Things seemed to keep going downhill. He felt so terrified by everyone here, after thinking he had finally settled down years ago. Thinking he had finally found steady ground out here. Thinking he had found his home.

Ludwig seemed to have brought out the dormant current.

Desperate to escape them, if only for a while, Toris trudged outside through the back door, afraid to pass Ludwig, and started scrubbing the blood out of the car and the trunk. Getting rid of the smell of gas. Anything to avoid them. All of them.

He reached up to tug at his collar frequently, always feeling now as if there was a noose around his neck.

Survival didn't seem too likely lately. The way they were going.

It was another day before Ivan started letting Irina move about. Toris watched her when she appeared, and was surprised at how normal her movements were. As if nothing had happened at all. Only the fading bruises made it apparent that there had ever been an incident. She spoke normally. She smiled, as she always had. Her voice held the same tone. She was fine. Just fine.

The men were dead. Ivan was set back. Ludwig was _gone_.

But Irina was fine.

Maybe she hadn't ever really been that damaged in the first place. Toris wondered, sometimes, if maybe women were stronger than men, because the whole incident seemed to have fucked Ivan and Ludwig over more than Irina. Well, not _women_ , exactly. Irina wasn't normal in any sense. Not a normal woman. As dangerous as the rest of them, in the right conditions. Irina was Ivan, as much as Ivan was.

There was one curious thing that had arisen out of the whole thing, however.

The way Irina behaved around Ludwig.

Often, now, when Toris saw them, Irina had started treating Ludwig as she treated Ivan. Couldn't blame her—they were essentially the same person now. Instead of coddling him every second as she had before, Irina treated Ludwig like a brother, and was quick to berate him if the need for it arose. She stared him down. She hassled him when she had to. When he didn't eat, she didn't try to sweet-talk him; she threatened him. She got her way with him.

No more fussing over broken noses.

She had never berated Ludwig before, and when she did now, the response she got was just like it was with Ivan. Ludwig ducked his chin, pursed his lips, and stared at the floor. Still did what she said, though. Irina had power of the both of them, one way or another. Looking back on it, maybe Irina was the craziest one.

At any rate, with Irina no longer needing attention, Ivan had focused _his_ attention on someone else.

Ivan had abandoned Irina's side to be forever at Ludwig's, and every time Toris saw them, they were sitting together somewhere, Ludwig looking lost and gone and confused. It took Ivan's hand upon his face to even get his eyes moving, and it had been a long while since he had spoken. When his eyes finally met Ivan's, though, Ludwig would always smile. Ivan just stroked Ludwig's cheek, staring at him as though he were the only thing left in the world.

They seemed to be the only ones in their universe.

Ivan never left Ludwig alone, and Ludwig seemed grateful. If Ludwig were gone, Ivan wouldn't know what to do.

Gilbert would ruin everything.

And, still, despite the urgency and looming doom, Toris found himself standing there, watching them, and thinking, 'So what!'

Ludwig had shot two men. So what? He'd killed so many people for Ivan. Ruined so many lives. Done so many things.

All these years...

Hadn't even gotten a damn 'thank you'.

* * *

Daylight grew longer.

So did the shadows.

Siberia came to life in spring, and Toris felt himself withering away in the corner. He had little time to bask in sunlight when Gilbert's damn darkness was ever approaching. The stars seemed dull. Hadn't felt this despondent since he'd arrived here that very first day.

Couldn't sleep. Couldn't eat. Couldn't think. Couldn't breathe sometimes.

Probably what Ludwig felt.

A week passed, Ludwig slowly started to come out of his stupor, and started walking confidently again. Raivis trailed behind him like a dog, that stupid look of awe on his face the whole while.

Toris watched them go by, watched their lives tick on, all the while feeling as if he was counting down his own.

The disruption of Ludwig's darkness had ever slowed his pursuit of Gilbert, and now they seemed farther away than ever. Everywhere he looked led to dust. Shadows that slipped out his grasp before he could pin them down. It was steadily dawning on him that he couldn't do it on his own. Didn't want to admit it, because admitting it meant that he would have to admit it to Ivan, and Ivan would fuckin' shoot him right where he stood.

Two weeks after the 'incident', someone finally bothered to call.

Toris was so spaced he couldn't even give real effort, and when he picked up the phone all he managed was a short, "What?"

But it wasn't his guys. Rather, a man looking for _his_ guys.

_"Is General Braginsky there?"_

"If he were here," Toris snapped, "He'd'a picked up the damn phone, wouldn't he?"

Not smart, to reflect upon Ivan in such a manner, but Gilbert had gotten under his skin.

After a short pause, the man asked, _"Will you inform him to call us back when he can? We're curious about two missing KGB officers. Don't suppose you have any information, do you?"_

Toris nearly scoffed, and instead griped, "It's Siberia. People go missing all the time. Maybe they got drunk and wandered off into the woods. Go look for 'em yourself."

_"We'll be sending out an officer to investigate_ —"

"So send him!" he barked, and slammed the phone down, without bothering to get so much as a name or a number. Ivan would hardly be more interested to speak with them, anyway.

Gripping a hapless piece of paper in his hands and crumpling it, Toris glowered at the phone and huffed away.

The dead officers were the last thing he cared about, not when he was gonna be joining them if he couldn't get it together. Let them send whoever they wanted; they wouldn't find anyone willing to talk, and Ivan would have it all washed away, sooner or later. If, by chance, they found the clearing, then so what? All of the ashes had been scattered by now by wind and animals.

...what if they ran into Ludwig, though? Would he be able to keep calm and sure and unbreakable when put on the spot? Honest and naive as he was. Ah. No point in worrying about it. Ivan was immune to such things.

Toris waited a few more days, but no one else called. No word of Gilbert. No sign of Eduard.

Nothing.

He couldn't hack it. Couldn't wrangle them.

And so he found himself, late one afternoon, sitting alone on the couch, staring at the floor and feeling chilly even as the sun shone in through the glass. Maybe it wasn't even Gilbert and Eduard; maybe it was all these years, maybe it was so many disappointments, maybe it was Ludwig, hell, maybe it was just self-pity that made him suddenly hang his head down between his arms and almost start crying.

Stress. Fear. Stinging in his eyes. Thickness in his throat as he breathed through his mouth. The closest he'd come to sobbing since he'd lost himself back there. Couldn't hold it together anymore.

Frustration.

Time to say it. It was time to tell Ivan.

He would have been able to take care of it himself, if it had just been Gilbert. Eduard made it harder. He needed help. Ivan was ruthless enough to resort to things Toris wouldn't have thought of otherwise. Ivan had tricks up his sleeve that Toris didn't. Knew more people. Ivan didn't tell Toris everything. Almost, but not everything.

He needed Ivan's help. Assuming that Ivan didn't kill him.

It was hard to get Ivan alone, as plastered as Ludwig was to his hip, but for once, Raivis' annoying admiration of Ludwig proved enough of a distraction to get by him and find Ivan alone in the office. Toris glanced back just long enough to see Raivis grabbing Ludwig's hand with his own and looking over the lines on his palm with apparent fascination. Those hands had killed now; was that what interested Raivis so? A shudder.

Quickly, he whirled back around, grabbed the doorknob, and braced himself for the inevitable.

Ivan would kill him.

He had stood there before Ivan all those years ago, helpless and terrified, and yet somehow it felt more horrifying now, to push open that door. To step inside. To tell Ivan.

Ivan was sitting at the desk, pen in hand but not writing, staring at papers without reading them. In his own world. Toris shut the door behind him, gently, and Ivan glanced up from the desk with a surprisingly weary expression. Wonderful. What a great mood to do this in.

Toris was sure he was shaking, but couldn't really feel it. Sure did feel sick, though. In a normal household, seeing someone looking so scared might have been cause for a worried, 'What's wrong?'

Not here.

Ivan narrowed his eyes, opened his mouth and asked instead, sternly, "What did you do?"

Oh, god, Ivan was gonna _shoot_ him.

It took a long time for him to open his mouth, and when he did, his voice was scarcely more than a scratchy whisper.

"I—I need help."

Ivan's equally low voice was not amused.

" _Help_. What did you do?"

It was the hardest thing he had ever done, to utter then, "He's coming."

A long, unbearable silence.

No elaboration was needed. It was obvious that Ivan understood immediately who ' _he_ ' was, from the way his fingers clenched his pen and the way his narrowed eyes darkened. The way he suddenly seemed to plunge the room into night.

Toris found himself edging up against the wall in a subconscious attempt to create distance between Ivan and himself. For all the good it did when Ivan stood up, swept the contents of the desk onto the floor with a furious hand, and lunged across the room to grab Toris by the collar. It was easy to forget how fuckin' fast Ivan was until he was pouncing on you.

A merciless slam cracked his head into the wall, causing a temporary scenery of darkness and stars, and when Toris' vision cleared, Ivan was staring down at him, hands so tight that he could barely breathe. So close he could smell Ivan's shaving cream.

"He! _He_! How's he fuckin' comin' Toris, huh? How's he coming? Huh? Weren't you supposed to be watching? Isn't that what I told you to do? Isn't it?"

Ivan's voice had gone high, as it did when he was furious.

Terror.

Toris didn't know what he could say that would save his life, but he tried to sputter some bullshit anyway, if only to make a go of it.

"I didn't know! I didn't know he had left, I didn't— I didn't know until—"

Didn't get to finish. Ivan had already wrenched his fist back, and Toris finally got what he had been seeking all these months; a punch. A sharp pain in his nose, a trickle of blood, and he didn't get a chance to speak before Ivan slammed him into the wall again and screeched, "You didn't KNOW? How could you not have KNOWN? You were supposed to be _WATCHING HIM_! You were supposed to be keeping an eye on EVERYTHING that was going on! You were supposed to make sure that he didn't ever come back across that _FUCKING BORDER_! YOU WERE SUPPOSED TO BE _WATCHING_ HIM! I had everything in place there for you, all you had to do was _CHECK IN_!"

He hadn't ever heard Ivan _scream_ like that. The most terrifying thing he'd ever heard in his life.

Ivan's fingers clenched ever tighter in his collar, he slammed Toris into the wall one final time, and leaned in. A low, dangerous hiss.

"You're so fuckin' stupid, you know? You're so stupid! Fuck, Toris, oh, god, I oughta shoot you right here you stupid son of a bitch, how the fuck could you have missed this? You had one job! _One job_! One goddamn job, and you couldn't do it! That stupid, moronic little cretin, dumb as he is, so fuckin' _stupid_ , and somehow he outsmarted you, Toris, he fuckin' _outsmarted_ you! If I—"

Toris did it, then, and he didn't know why. He opened his mouth in his defense, and interrupted Ivan. Nobody interrupted Ivan when he spoke.

Nobody.

"It's not just him," Toris said, as loudly as he dared. "He's gettin' help! I know he can't make it on his own, but he's not alone. Fuckin' _Eduard_ is helpin' him! Eduard's doing everything. That was why I couldn't find them for so long. Eduard!"

Not the whole truth, but pretty close. It had taken him too long to notice Gilbert's absence, sure, but Eduard's stealth was prolonging the discovery of their whereabouts. Easier to let Eduard take some of the blame.

Ivan's wrath fell silent for a second, he opened his mouth, lost his voice, and inhaled a sharp breath. No doubt he had assumed he'd never hear Eduard's name again. After this long. It was the shock of being backstabbed by Eduard that kept Ivan from punching Toris in the nose again for being petulant. Toris had said it, no doubt, so that Ivan _would_ hit him again. At least if Ivan was hitting him he was too busy to shoot him.

Speak of the devil!

Ivan didn't hit him, not this time, but he might have gotten it worse; the short shock of Eduard wore off too quickly, and Ivan went dark again. A hand fumbled, something clicked, and before Toris really knew it, Ivan's fuckin' gun was pressing into his stomach. Ivan's nose nearly touched his own.

That horrible shrieking, that frightful anger, died down into a somehow more terrifying whisper.

"He's mine. No one's gonna take him, no one, and I'll raze this entire miserable country to the ground to keep him, you hear me?"

In the midst of it all, one stupid thought—fuckin' Christ, not in the stomach. If Ivan was gonna shoot him then he was gonna shoot him, but let it be in the chest like Ivan shot everyone, not in the fuckin' stomach. Didn't wanna go out like that. Heard that was the worst way to die, a bullet in the gut.

Dumb. Did it really matter, in the end? Dead was dead.

The muzzle was pressing so hard into him that he practically taste the metal, and Ivan's iron fist in his collar, constricting his airway, wasn't helping much.

"What good are you, huh? What fuckin' good are you, Toris? Huh? Outdone by the same man twice, huh? All these years! You never fuckin' learn anything, do you? What good are you?"

A shake, violent and angry, and Toris could feel in Ivan's contracting hands that he was about to be shot.

Ivan said as much.

"You just killed yourself, you stupid son of a bitch."

Emptiness.

When it came down to it, when he stood upon the brink, Toris realized that he wasn't scared. His shaking stopped cold, his breath stopped, every muscle in his body seemed to go limp, and he could only stare into Ivan's eyes. As it was when he was put into a position that required his full focus, he didn't tremble. Whether he was holding the gun or the gun was held on him, it seemed to be the only time he could even feel somethin' close to brave. No fear. Just numb and void, as if he had caught the hypothermia that had once nearly killed Ludwig.

Space. Silence.

Static.

Ludwig!

Fuckin' Ludwig, _he_ had set everything into motion by crossing that wall. Should have left Gilbert to die.

The pressure on his stomach intensified. Ivan's finger started pulling.

And then, somewhere through the void of space, Toris could have sworn that he had heard Ludwig's voice, faint and deep, far beneath the atmosphere. Had thinking of Ludwig brought his voice in Toris' head?

Or had Ivan shot him already?

"Ivan."

A gentle, tranquil whisper.

Ivan seemed to freeze that time, and Toris realized he wasn't hearing things; he somehow tore his eyes from Ivan long enough to see Ludwig standing behind Ivan, calm and straight and very much unfazed.

Disbelief. Ludwig had come.

The shock was broken quite brutally, and the fear that had been stunned away surged forth in full force. His trembling came back tenfold as Ivan looked back, and Ludwig reached out to place a gentle hand upon his arm. Toris could see the tensing of Ivan's shoulders, and it didn't seem at first as though he even realized Ludwig was there.

Quiet. Unbearably quiet.

Ludwig.

Ludwig's hand raised from Ivan's arm up to his shoulder, and Toris was too dumb and stunned to hear what Ludwig whispered. Focused as he was on that gun.

Ivan seemed as oblivious to Ludwig's words, quickly shrugging Ludwig off and wrenching himself back towards Toris. Ludwig tried again, this time grabbing Ivan's shirt and physically attempting to pull Ivan backwards.

Not a good idea at the moment.

Ivan was so furious, so intent on _hurting_ , that he whirled around like a snake and struck Ludwig across the face with the back of his hand. The sharp sound of it had more of an effect on Ivan than Ludwig's initial words had, and Ludwig, shrugging off the blow as easily as a fly and reached out to grab Ivan's face in that instant that Ivan was frozen.

Toris' cloudy mind couldn't even take comfort in the fact that Ivan had finally hit Ludwig out of anger. Ha; yeah, kind of. It was Toris that Ivan was angry with. Ludwig just got in the way.

A brief struggle as Ludwig tried to keep Ivan still and calm, popping upwards on his toes to put his lips up to Ivan's ear. Whispering. Toris was glad he couldn't hear. Probably wouldn't have understood anyway. They didn't make sense to him anymore. Whatever was said, whatever strange things came to mind, Ludwig's words were steadily breaking through the oblivion; Ivan's shoulders suddenly slumped, and the gun was loose at his side. A lightening of his eyes and a lift of his brow. And, then, quite suddenly, Ivan looked exhausted again.

The tiger had been tamed quite skillfully by Ludwig.

Ludwig's hands stayed firm on Ivan's face when he pulled back, and the smile Ludwig sent Ivan was scarier somehow than Ivan's rage had been.

The darkness was gone. Shadows lingered. Oh, still furious, no doubt about it, but Ludwig had managed to cut the blue wire before Ivan had pulled the trigger.

When Ivan pried himself out of Ludwig's hands and whipped around again to grab Toris by the throat, this time the gun stayed put and made no contact with him. Didn't feel much better, if he were honest. Ivan's hiss in his ear was more frightening than the gun.

"By god, Toris, I'll shoot every last one of us if he gets here. I'll kill us all before I ever give him up. He's mine. Find him. Find him. Kill him. I swear to you, I'll kill us all. _Find_ him!"

Toris wished he was brave enough to retort, 'What's the big deal if Gilbert shows up? I thought you had Ludwig trained?'

Maybe not fully. Ivan was afraid of a wave coming in to break that still water. Another disruption. If Ludwig cracked and recognized Gilbert, if Ludwig woke up and tried to flee, Ivan would implode. Hell unleashed on the world. Everyone would pay for it.

Gunshots in the middle of the night.

"I'll fix it," Toris managed, stiffly, and Ivan released his collar.

He said nothing more, and when Ivan left, Toris fell against the wall, wide-eyed and breathless, his heart racing so fiercely that he was certain Ludwig could hear it.

Ludwig.

Ludwig had saved his life. He thought that Ludwig would stop there, and ask for an explanation, as he would have before. He thought Ludwig would reach out, and put a hand on Toris' shoulder. Ask him if he was alright. Offer comfort. Brother.

Instead, Toris could only lean there and watch as Ludwig walked slowly by, casting him only a short, uninterested glance as he passed. High brow. Barely crinkled leer. Chin lowered and shoulders loose.

Toris' short elation of being alive died at the expression on Ludwig's face. The unintentionally condescending and arrogant look of a man who knew he was superior. The way Ivan looked at him. Ludwig had never looked at him like that. Not like that. Hurt, more than it frightened him. He had become a novelty to Ludwig.

Toris immediately understood that look :

'I saved you because I felt like it.'

Not because he meant anything to Ludwig. Ludwig had intervened because doing so had been interesting to him. Ludwig had saved him from Ivan with about as much sincerity as a cat letting a mouse go after teasing it because it realized it wasn't even hungry. It had been a fun experiment for Ludwig, to see if he could bring Ivan down from the cloud in the midst of rage. To try and control the wild beast.

He had.

Ludwig might have transcended Ivan in the power struggle.

Maybe Ludwig had starting calling the shots, having Ivan as helplessly enamored as he did. Ludwig had realized, perhaps, that although Ivan was always in charge, it wasn't so hard to get him to do what Ludwig wanted. Ivan had hit Ludwig for the first time, sure, but had caved in to him all the same afterwards, and Ludwig hadn't even flinched.

With a god under his belt, a man was nothing. Toris was nothing.

_Ludwig_ was nothing, because this wasn't Ludwig. They weren't brothers anymore.

A short snort of air through his nose, a hooding of his eyes, a prim lift of his head, and Ludwig walked through the threshold. The cat had gotten bored. The door clicked shut, Ludwig's soft steps vanished, and Toris sank to the floor and held his head in his hands.

Oh. He just wanted to go to _sleep_.

He sat there until the sun went down, and finally, somehow, he dragged himself up long enough to reach the desk and collapse into the chair. He laid his head down, buried it under his arms, and drifted away.

Pressure on his abdomen. Echoes of a gun.

His fitful sleep didn't last long.

When Ivan calmed down, in the dark and when the hour crept closer to the early morning, he came into the office, and shut the door behind him.

Toris jumped up in fright and swallowed, head pounding and heart racing. Ivan didn't utter a word as he strode forward, and somehow Toris managed to feel even shittier than he had before. He knew he was still pale as a sheet, nauseous as he was, and yet he felt even sicker when Ivan sat down in front of him and stared him down. He ducked his head, quickly, hoping immediate submission would placate a little of Ivan's wrath.

It didn't, not really.

Terror.

Ludwig was asleep; no more water to douse that fire if it started up again, assuming Ludwig could even be bothered to save him a second time. Unlikely.

Ivan sat there for what felt like hours, and when he finally spoke, it wasn't much better.

"I was going to shoot you," Ivan finally said, in a rather serene whisper, and Toris had no doubt that he was telling the truth. "But," he continued quickly, one hand drumming the desk, "I've decided instead to help you fix this mess, because frankly, Toris, I don't really want to be bothered with it. When it's fixed, and depending on how it's fixed, I'll decide what to do with you."

Toris kept his eyes on the desk, and waited until it was time for him to speak.

"It should go without saying that I won't be leaving you in charge of anything again. All these years, and you somehow managed to fuck up the simplest task I've ever given you. After this is done, you'll be relieved of most of your duties."

Why did that sting so much? He'd done so much for Ivan.

Ah, hell. Shouldn't'a said anything at all. Ivan was gonna end up shootin' him, when everything was said and done. Ivan hated paperwork, sure he did, hated meetings and conversations, hated _work_ , but he'd shoot Toris all the same if he felt so inclined. If Toris' annoying tendencies outweighed his usefulness. After all, in the end, he was only Toris. He was replaceable to Ivan. Not like Ludwig.

Toris and Ivan had been side by side for ten years, never one without the other, had created this Siberian world together, and yet for it all Toris didn't mean a damn thing to Ivan. When the time was right, Raivis would take Toris' place.

Ivan leaned forward then, pale eyes catching light in the lamp, and he asked, firmly, "Where is he, Toris? Where _exactly_ is he?"

Toris was too scared to say, 'I don't know', so he said instead, "Leaving Moscow."

A barely noticeable crinkle of Ivan's nose. The distant rumble of a brewing storm.

"Who helped him get that far?"

"Edelstein got him into Kyiv, looks like. Eduard's done everything after. Buncha wire transfers from Edelstein's bank account—"

"Which one is he?"

"Edelstein. Austrian ambassador to West Germany. Took care of Ludwig. We had the papers on him, too, remember?"

Ivan grunted, as if annoyed that Toris expected him to remember such asinine details now that he didn't need to threaten Ludwig with them anymore.

Again, maybe he shouldn't have said anything. Nobody crossed Ivan.

"Why's he stickin' his nose in?"

Toris understood what Ivan meant.

'Why's he doing all this for a man who doesn't even know his own real name?'

"I don't know."

A long, unpleasant hesitation. Toris could see the wheels turning away in Ivan's head, and just waited, as always. Those fingers kept tapping the desk.

"Who else have you been watching? When you were actually doing your job, that is."

"His wife. That American kid, too. But they haven't moved around any."

They didn't have anything to do with this, apart from knowing the wrong person at the wrong time.

Toris had done a lot of shitty things in his life, so many terrible things, and yet somehow he wasn't really ready for what Ivan said then.

"So kill them."

Toris hesitated.

"Why?"

They hadn't done anything wrong.

"Because I said to."

"But Edelstein's—"

"I said kill them. They should have let it go and minded their own business. I was fair. I gave them one. They should have left it alone. Ha! Important people die all the time, don't they? I was fair."

Ivan had been wronged, in his mind. He had been fair. Sure he had. He had let Gilbert go, and had taken Ludwig instead. And hell, in some twisted sense, perhaps Ivan was right. He had been _fair_. Not kind or merciful or _right_ , but fair. He could have taken both; instead, he had traded. They should have known that they couldn't have both, either.

He wanted to say, 'But that kid and that woman haven't _done_ anything.'

Didn't matter. Ivan wouldn't be moved. Too late for excuses. Ivan wanted Gilbert dead. Didn't matter why or how. And Ivan was right about something else, too :

Important _did_ die, all the time. Happened every damn day.

Oh. When had it ever come to all this?

It had all come about so quickly. So quickly. The snapping of Ludwig's mind had emboldened Ivan to a point of madness, even for him. Before Ludwig, even fearless Ivan woulda sat there and thought twice about takin' out someone as high-profile as Edelstein. Not now. Ivan ordered death onto gods now as easily as he always had men.

Funny, when Toris thought about it; Ivan's fury. Funny because Ivan was threatened by Gilbert, by that stupid man, as he had put it.

Maybe Ivan wasn't perfectly confident that Ludwig wouldn't turn at the sight of Gilbert and remember that there was actually a world outside this place. Maybe Ivan thought that Gilbert would somehow jam the machine and bring Ludwig back from the dark. Maybe he thought that, somewhere in there, Ludwig still loved Gilbert.

Or maybe Ivan just wanted Gilbert dead because Gilbert had had the audacity to leave Berlin and the gall to attempt to trek through Siberia with the intention of taking something that belonged to Ivan. The principle of the matter.

Who cared, anymore?

Gilbert had signed his death warrant the second he had crossed that wall, and he took others with him. If Gilbert turned around right now and went back to Berlin, he wouldn't find anyone left waiting by the time he got there. Edelstein and his wife. Ludwig's dumb friend. Good people.

Annoyances to Ivan.

To Ivan, _they_ were the 'bad guys', trying to take something that Ivan was convinced he had rightfully earned and taken fairly.

A scribble on a paper, and Ivan was shoving something in his hand. Toris looked down to see a number. Not one of his guys. Must have been one of Ivan's secret associates.

Ivan stood up then, the chair scraping on the floor, and as he left, he glanced back at Toris and said, in more of a contemptuous hiss, "You _can_ do this, can't you? Should I even bother letting you try? Don't mess up again, Toris. For your sake."

Voiceless, Toris nodded.

He could do it. He'd prove he could.

A rise of bitterness. He could do anything Ludwig could. Better.

Later on in the night, having paced a hole in the floor, Toris finally sat down at the desk, picked up the phone, looked at the number Ivan had given him, and set to work. Like in everything else, he knew every move he made was wrong.

He still did it.

Because maybe, just maybe, in the back of his mind he was _angry_ that Eduard had returned to this land with Gilbert. That Eduard was coming to Ludwig's rescue, when Eduard had had no reservations about leaving _him_ here, so long ago. That Eduard extended his hand for a man he didn't know, but had not done so for a brother.

Anger.

He had been betrayed once. Eduard would get it back double.

Eduard had left behind only bitterness and hate, and stoked it now by helping someone who meant nothing to him, nothing at all. Well. So what? Let him do as he wished. At any rate, Eduard had made a mistake this time in coming back. Gilbert was beyond help, and so was Ludwig. Gilbert was just leading Eduard to death. And Toris couldn't really say that he was too upset about that.

He was angry at Eduard. He was angry at Gilbert. He was angry at Ludwig. So he took it out on everyone Ivan told him to. But it was really Gilbert's fault; not _his_. Gilbert, who had caused everything in the first place, by being foolish. Eduard's fault, too, for abandoning him and sharpening him.

Ludwig's fault, for being Ivan's favorite.

The phone felt too heavy in his hand.

Was it Gilbert or was it Ludwig that brought misfortune to others? The Ivan-Ludwig had as little thought for others as Gilbert did. Gilbert. Ludwig. Eduard. One death for each of them. Which one would take the blame for these three accidents? All of them were responsible, in their own ways. Each of them could carry the guilt.

All any of them had ever had to do was stay _put._ Just sit still. They were all responsible.

The plastic in his hand had gotten warm.

Wind battered the window. Above the trees, stars, steadily being swallowed by encroaching clouds. A sharp pain in his temples. Hell—the Ivan-Ludwig. Ha, yeah. Hypocrite. When he picked up that phone, he was just letting the Ivan-Toris out a little. He was crazy, too. The only blame was his own. He did it because he wanted to. Because he wanted to hurt someone. Because he wanted to show up Ludwig. Because he wanted to impress Ivan.

Long ago, somewhere along the line, he had been a good person.

Toris dialed.

Good people died, too.

He had.


	40. Setting Sun

**Chapter 40**

**Setting Sun**

His dreams had been strange.

Lost voices. Old buildings. Tunnels and hallways. Doors, shut and locked. Places that weren't real anymore.

The headaches never stopped. The voices were constant. Something he couldn't put his finger on had shut off. Suddenly, as if from nowhere, nothing and no one seemed to matter to him anymore.

Ivan was all there was in the world. The rest had vanished, as if it had sank down into the sand. The outside. Everything outside the borders of this land. Life that went on beyond the realm of Siberia. It could burn, as far as he was concerned.

Ludwig didn't know when or where the shift had occurred. It had been recent, it had been loud, and it had been red.

Heat in his hand. Gunpowder and iron.

He had just woken up a few days later and realized that he felt connected to Ivan more than he ever had. Things seemed to make more sense. The first foothold that he had found after so long being lost in the fog. The first peek above the cloud.

Ivan looked at him differently, too. With more intensity, it seemed. Maybe more focus. As if, somehow, Ivan could see him more clearly than he had been able to before. As if they were standing on a level platform, rather than Ivan having to peer down at him from above.

Or it could have easily been all in his head, and he just found himself all the more enamored with Ivan.

Every day that passed, life without Ivan seemed less and less livable. Woulda died, if Ivan ever vanished. He could stand there now and say, without shame, that he couldn't go on without Ivan. Just couldn't.

Waking up after that shift and seeing Ivan was like seeing the other side of the reflection; the same things, but flipped. Inverted. Ivan, and somehow himself. Everything he had wanted, everything he had looked for his entire life. Everything he had sought out from others. Everything he had dreamt of for himself.

Everything he would do from now on would be to preserve that feeling. That solid ground.

Ivan loved him.

Each touch, each interaction, each motion between Ivan and himself seemed so much more intimate, suddenly, and Ludwig could really only attribute it to that new sense of understanding.

One morning, not long after, he found himself standing over Ivan, who sat idle in a chair, shirtless and leaning backwards, and was more than happy to be running his hands up and down Ivan's face. The task was simple; just a shave. Somehow, though, it felt more like Ivan was tasking him with running an entire country, and Ludwig felt his eyes narrow with focus and his hands keep steady as he coated Ivan's cheeks in lather.

Maybe Ivan trusted him more now. Maybe Ivan just wanted to be close to him every instance. Whatever the reason, Ludwig took that trust, however insignificant it may have seemed, extremely seriously. Every opportunity to impress Ivan hardly seemed unimportant.

Ivan seemed content enough though, under the warmth of Ludwig's hands and the lather.

Ludwig had barely even brought the razor up before Ivan was distracting him.

"How did it feel?" Ivan suddenly asked, reaching up with those quick hands to grab Ludwig by the face, forcing his complete and absolute attention. "When you shot them. How did it feel?"

Those pale eyes were boring into his own so fervently that Ludwig wondered if he even needed to speak; felt like Ivan could suddenly see everything he was thinking.

Thumbs, running over the line of his jaw.

Ludwig stared down at Ivan, so still there on the chair, and tried to gather up his muddled thoughts.

"It was... I don't know. It was like I was somewhere else. Felt like I was floatin' around or something. Like I wasn't really there. Does that make sense?"

Ivan nodded his head, shut his eyes, and went quiet. He lowered his hands, then, and Ludwig brought up the razor and set to work. Suddenly, though, as randomly as Ivan had interrupted, Ludwig found his focus rather broken. Couldn't help but wonder.

Ludwig stayed silent for a moment, as the razor scraped across Ivan's chin, and then he found his nerve.

"Is that what you felt?" he asked, glad that Ivan's piercing eyes were closed.

"When?"

"When your father killed your mother. Was it like that?"

A long silence.

When Ivan spoke, he didn't seem angry at the question; what a relief.

"Who told you that? Irina?"

Ludwig nodded, despite Ivan's closed eyes. Somehow, Ivan knew the answer all the same. A scoff.

"What's she know, anyway? She wasn't there. She believes anything anyone tells her. She's dumb, you know? Ah, that's not the right word. What am I thinking of?"

Immediately, Ludwig offered, "Naïve?"

Ivan didn't know the word, but seemed to agree all the same, because he appeared to believe that he and Ludwig were of one mind enough now that Ludwig knew right off what he had wanted to say.

Unbearable silence, as Ludwig squirmed restlessly as he waited for Ivan to continue. Ivan just sat there, though, comfortable and lethargic, and was content to leave it there. Ludwig pressed, because his death would probably be from curiosity.

"So... That isn't what happened?"

Pressing his luck, maybe, but nosiness forced him along.

Ivan smiled, and raised a lofty brow.

"Well. She got part of it right. He did shoot me. But he didn't shoot my mother."

The razor had long since fallen still. Couldn't focus on two things at once, and he was so absorbed in Ivan's words that he'd probably cut him if he kept trying. Probably not a good idea.

And when Ivan spoke again, Ludwig was glad that he had stopped, because he might have felt his hands twitch.

"He didn't shoot her. I did."

Silence.

Ludwig just stood there, staring down at Ivan, who had finally opened his eyes.

The look he sent Ludwig was enough to make him feel a little dizzy. Just that endless, constant adoration. Couldn't stand it sometimes. Ivan made him crazy without really trying.

Couldn't think of anything to say, then, but Ivan started talking again, still calm and lazy.

"You remember the first time I gave you a gun? That was my first time. He showed me how to use it." Ivan's voice was as easygoing as anything, as if he were reliving a casual childhood memory, rather than the murder of his mother. "He took me downstairs, and told me to shoot her. She was asleep, she was, so she wasn't scared. She didn't feel anything. I didn't miss. First time I ever shot, and didn't miss."

Of course not. Ivan was perfect.

A flash in his mind, of a calm, pale-haired child, as easygoing then as he was now, pointing a gun for the first time and somehow aiming it straight.

Red.

"I thought he wanted me to shoot him, too, but he didn't. He took it away from me. I don't know why. Guess he wanted to do it himself."

Ludwig didn't need to know the rest. Already did; a quick glance down was all he needed to see the scar on Ivan's chest.

Ivan looked up at him suddenly, reached up to grab his face yet again within warm hands, and said, pointedly, "Anyone can shoot anyone, you know. Just because someone is family doesn't mean you can't shoot them."

Family.

A nose pressed into his own, as thumbs ran over his cheeks. Warm breath.

"My mother loved me, and my father loved her, but he still made me kill her. Afterwards, I don't even think I noticed she was gone. Family doesn't matter. All I care about is you. Me and you. I'd shoot anyone for you."

Entranced by Ivan, by everything about him, by everything he was, Ludwig could only stare at him, through lidded eyes, and smile.

"I love you," Ivan suddenly whispered, canines poking out in a charming smile, and it didn't take too long before Ludwig had leaned down to kiss him.

Anyone could be shot. He had started figuring that out on his own, but Ivan's nudging was always appreciated.

Another whisper.

"I'd shoot Irina for you, if you wanted me to. Anyone for you."

And whether or not that was true, whether or not Ivan would have really extended his love for Ludwig quite that far, it almost didn't matter. What mattered were the words, the sentiment, the devotion.

For someone to say, 'I'd shoot my own sibling for you.'

For someone to love him that much. Didn't matter if it was a lie.

Somehow, he found himself with his own hands on Ivan's face, and this time it was he who whispered.

"Me too."

Anyone, anything, for Ivan.

* * *

Agitation.

He called and called. Nobody picked up.

Roderich's office. His house. Ludwig's— _Alfred's_ house. Nobody picked up.

Gilbert stood there in the street for what felt like years, hair damp in a light spring rain, and he called and called until his fingers were sore from dropping in change. Roderich had always picked up before. Never missed a call, hanging over the phone as he always was, hoping to get the word that he had wanted, that Ludwig was coming home.

Roderich wouldn't pick up.

Not that Gilbert really had anything to say to any of them, not to Alfred and not to Erzsébet and not to Roderich, but he felt isolated. Alone. Apart from the world. Lost, somewhere else. When Roderich didn't pick up, he felt as if the world sank under. Roderich had told him to keep calling, so why didn't he pick up?

Nobody picked up.

Things just seemed to get worse, the farther they trekked. Gilbert always looked around, but Ludwig wasn't there. Hadn't been, for a few days. He didn't even know where _he_ was, let alone where Ludwig was. Couldn't even keep track of himself.

Roderich wouldn't pick up.

Eduard was still asleep when he slunk back inside the hotel room, and Gilbert stood there in front of the door and watched him for a while, as the window shook from the wind.

Felt so damn tired, but couldn't sleep. Felt more like he was about to drop over dead, but hadn't, not yet. He didn't really know how much more of this he could take. Ludwig was still so far away, so far, and no matter how close they got, it still felt like they were across an ocean.

Eduard stirred a while later, while Gilbert stood there, and reached out to pat around for his glasses. When he looked over at Gilbert, he smiled. Gilbert woulda smiled back if he'd been able to.

"Good morning to you, too," Eduard grumbled, huskily, pulling the blankets back up to his chin in one last moment of enjoying comfort.

Gilbert went over to his bed and sat down, legs dangling off, and realized that he was glad Eduard was there. Someone to be there by his side the whole while. Even when Ludwig disappeared, Eduard was always there when he woke up.

Months.

Hell, he'd almost started thinking of this man as a friend. Lately, Eduard seemed to be the only one that gave a damn about him.

Roderich didn't pick up.

Lonely and morose, he kept on staring at Eduard, because Ludwig wasn't there. Eduard felt his staring, perhaps, and peeked open an eye.

"What's the matter?"

He wanted to say, 'Nobody is answering,' but Eduard would bitch at him if he knew he'd been calling anyone, so Gilbert just muttered, "Head hurts. Can't sleep."

Eduard called, though, called that terrifying woman every time they stopped, and she always picked up. Not fair.

Eduard sat up, lethargically, and grumbled, "Yeah, well, sorry I can't afford more comfortable lodgings."

For a second, Gilbert had almost smiled, and said, "I guess I expected better from you. Thought you'd treat me a little better."

Hardly bothered, Eduard just looked at the clock, seemed to be preparing himself for another long day, and sighed.

"Well. Let's get going, then."

Gilbert just stood up, and went along. Wasn't long before they were driving again. Every time they passed a payphone, Gilbert couldn't help but eyeball it. Antsy and anxious to get a hold of Roderich. They stopped, a few days later, in a little motel in the middle of nowhere, and when Eduard had fallen asleep with a bottle of vodka, Gilbert slunk out and tried to call again.

Hours.

No fuckin' answer.

This time, when he admitted defeat, he banged the phone a couple of times out of frustration, and when the plastic cracked, he cried a little, before hauling himself back inside. Didn't get it. Couldn't understand.

Eduard slept like a baby, snoring away and hair sticking out all over the place, and for a horrible, desperate moment, Gilbert had wanted to crawl into Eduard's bed and cry himself to sleep. Just to be next to someone, after so long. To feel another live human being beside of him. Eduard looked too much like Ludwig. Couldn't take that.

Alone. Felt so _lonely_. He stood there for long time, but in the end, he slunk morosely over to his own bed and tossed himself down. Choked. Took a long time to sleep. Too cold here, even in spring. The moon outside was too bright. The bed creaked. Misery on all sides. So he laid on his stomach, staring over at Eduard with longing until finally, somehow, he drifted off.

Not for too long, though.

Couldn't have been too long after midnight, not too long after they had started dreaming, not too long after Gilbert could finally get a reprieve from this shitty world, when something woke them up.

A horrible, screeching.

Shrill. Terrifying.

Gilbert started upright, hair wild and breathing through his mouth, and looked around in a panic for the source of that shrill cry. Oh god, he thought he was having a heart-attack, the way his fuckin' chest seized up and his lungs hurt and everything around him was spinning. Nearly fell out of the bed then, if a hand to the end-table hadn't stopped him short.

Across from him, Eduard had flopped over, groping around for his glasses with shaking hands.

A second of panic. Inability to think.

And then Gilbert turned his head, heard a clatter of plastic, and realized the phone was ringing. Eduard, still half-drunk and half-asleep, had gripped it, pulling it up to his ear, and rasped, highly and in terror, " _Allo_?"

Gilbert couldn't hear the words.

Never had he hoped it was Roderich more. Oh, god, let it be Roderich. Impossible. Roderich hadn't picked up—didn't know where Gilbert was.

Wanted it to be Roderich.

But then the look on Eduard's face was pretty goddamn terrifying, and hardly a second had passed before the phone was slammed down again, and Eduard leapt to his feet so fast that he hit his knee on the end-table.

"Get _up_!" he shrieked, sending Gilbert's stunned brain into another panic. "Get up, get up! We gotta get the hell out of here, get up!"

The situation was apparently dire, but still, Gilbert sat there in bed, and looked around for Ludwig. Took him a while to remember that Ludwig was gone, stunned and sleep-shocked as he hand on his arm, a yank so hard that his shoulder almost came out of its socket, and Eduard was already dragging him to the window.

The window?

Eduard's hands were shaking so badly that he almost couldn't force the glass up, and when he finally got it open enough to crawl through, he grabbed Gilbert by the back of the shirt and tried very hard to throw him out.

Dazed. Confused.

He hit the ground, and sat there, hands in the dirt and looking around in a bleary whirl, chest still clenched up and barely able to breathe. A thud beside of him, as Eduard rolled out. Fear, creeping in through the shock. Eduard's hand again, pulling him upright and dragging him onward. He felt himself being shoved inside the car, heard the keys jingling as Eduard's trembling hands fumbled them over and over again, heard the engine sputtering, heard the squealing of the tires as Eduard sped out so quickly that he almost crashed. Heard Eduard's heavy, panicked breathing. Heard the hammering of his own heart.

The lights of the motel disappeared behind them.

The road sped by.

How long had it been when Gilbert finally snapped out of it and could breathe again? Couldn't say.

When he opened his mouth to speak, all he managed to ask was, "What happened?"

Eduard, jaw clenched, just shook his head, maybe too scared to speak.

The panic was steadily turning into anger. His head hurt so fuckin' _bad_.

Barely keeping himself together and clenching his fists so tightly that it hurt, he asked, again, "What happened? Tell me what happened."

No answer.

Frustration overrode everything else. Couldn't take it.

"Goddammit!" Gilbert cried, as he struck out and punched the dashboard with his fist, "Why won't you fuckin' talk, huh? Tell me what the hell's goin' on, because I feel like I'm goin' _crazy_ right now! Christ!"

Pain in his wrist.

Eduard was quiet for a while, and then caved in to Gilbert.

"They're on to us," Eduard said. "They found us. We gotta keep moving now. They fuckin' found us, and I don't know how."

A short silence, and then Eduard inhaled a shaky breath, and tried to laugh. He turned to Gilbert, face lit up blue in the interior lights of the car, and the smile on his face was somehow breathless.

"I think I should have just dropped you off where I was supposed to and then gone about my business."

That anger faded as quickly as it came, and Gilbert felt his shoulders slumping. Exhaustion.

As an afterthought, Eduard added, "No offense my friend, but if we get out of this alive, I never want to see you again."

Gilbert turned foul eyes to the dashboard and grunted, "Likewise."

Everything got a little quiet then, and Gilbert turned his head to the window so that Eduard wouldn't see the passing of misery on his face. Pitiful. Nowhere was safe. Couldn't even sleep anymore without worrying if he was going to wake up.

As he sat there, head pressing into the window and sniveling to himself, Eduard finally spoke up again.

"Who were you calling? All this time?"

Head too heavy to lift, Gilbert just sat still, glanced over, and muttered, "Friends. Ludwig's friends, I should say. They're the ones who sent me—well, I mean, they didn't force me, I came too because I wanted Ludwig back, but... When I was the one that came back, they... They wanted him. Not me. They hate me. They just want Ludwig back."

A soft, "Oh."

The car's tires whirred as the heat blasted. Eduard's look seemed a bit odd. Disheartened, in a way.

Finally, Eduard turned to him, and said, strangely, "Don't call any of them again."

A squirm of guilt.

"Is that how they found us?"

Had his constant need to speak to the outside world done them in? Very likely.

Eduard didn't answer, and instead just repeated, "Don't call them again."

" _Why_?"

Eduard's brow scrunched in irritation, as if he wanted Gilbert to just drop it. Not that. He wouldn't let that go, and stared at Eduard until he got an answer.

In the end, Eduard just lowered his voice, and said, "Don't call. They won't pick up."

"What do you mean?"

Eduard was squirming. A horrible shadow on his face.

"There... Ah! No one's _there_ anymore, so don't call."

It took a long, long time for Gilbert to _get_ it. To understand. No one there. No one had picked up, no one had answered, because no one was there.

Hit him like a fuckin' rock.

His head went from pounding to spinning. Chest hurt.

Why he felt himself bursting into tears then, he couldn't really have ever expressed.

Alfred. Hadn't really known Alfred, not really, but he musta been a good kid, for Ludwig to take to him so. Ludwig didn't trust many people, didn't talk much, so Alfred must have been something special.

Erzsébet. The only person that had taken pity on him. The only person aside from Ludwig that ever hugged him. The only person that might have thought he wasn't really a bad guy. She had never put him out, no matter how much strife he caused.

But fuckin' _Roderich_ —

Oh, Roderich.

Hated Roderich. Always had, and Christ, Roderich was dead. Gilbert had wished sometimes, high and drunk, that Roderich woulda just died so that he could take his place in the world and have a family instead. Have everything Roderich had. To be Roderich.

The feeling wasn't what he had expected.

He felt like he'd been stabbed, because, when he really stopped and thought about it...

Gilbert had laid claim to Ludwig, but it was really Roderich, Roderich and Erzsébet, that had created Ludwig the way he was. It was Roderich that had made Ludwig a good human being. It was Roderich that had truly raised Ludwig, in the sense that only a guardian and a responsible adult could. It was Roderich, in the end, that had truly loved Ludwig, loved everything about him, loved all the things that Gilbert hadn't.

It was Roderich who had _allowed_ Gilbert, through all of the bullshit and the chaos he caused, to see Ludwig, to continue keeping Ludwig, to call Ludwig his own even though Roderich had more of a claim to him. Even though Roderich could have cut him off anytime he had felt so inclined. Even though Roderich hated Gilbert, but had had enough thought to let him keep comin' around because it was what Ludwig wanted.

It was Roderich who had brought Ludwig home. Gilbert had never once given him credit. Hadn't ever expressed gratitude.

Gilbert had called Roderich selfish. Roderich had paid the bills when Gilbert had been strung out in the streets.

Gilbert had called Roderich egotistical. Roderich had sat there and clenched his mouth shut when Gilbert called him horrible things, because Ludwig, small and calm, sat beside him.

Gilbert had called Roderich pompous. Roderich had been the one to stop and take a scraggly orphan off of the street, something that Gilbert would have never done if it had come down to it.

Gilbert had called Roderich arrogant. Roderich had looked terrified when he had knelt down before tiny Ludwig and asked him if he wanted to come stay in Vienna with them for a while, just for a while, and had breathed a sigh of relief when Ludwig had quickly and happily confirmed.

Gilbert had called Roderich foolish. Roderich had kept countries calm when tensions were high.

Gilbert had called Roderich proud. He had been right about that one; Roderich had so much to be proud of, and when Ludwig had turned eighteen and became, to them, a man, Roderich had lifted his chin and puffed his chest more than anyone. When someone stopped on the street and called Erzsébet beautiful, Roderich's smile was wider than hers.

When someone complimented Roderich, he had always accepted it and nodded his head politely, and Gilbert had hated him for it, because no one had ever said nice things to _him_. He hadn't earned it. Roderich had built himself up, had crafted everything around him the way he wanted it to be. Roderich got everything, because he had worked for it. Roderich was powerful, because he had striven his entire life to be.

Gilbert had wanted everything while giving nothing.

The only thing he had ever given Roderich was hate.

_'—but you can't, because he's_ my _son—'_

_'He's not your son. You're not his fuckin' father. You never will be. He loves me more.'_

Roderich's crinkled brow of hurt.

Spent so long _hatin'_ him that Gilbert had never taken the time to say, 'Thank you.'

'Thank you for finding him.'

'Thank you for letting me have him.'

'Thank you for letting me _stay._ '

Too late.

And Roderich hadn't had everything, not everything, not the thing he wanted the most. A son. Gilbert had taken it from him. Roderich had always been the better man. The better father. The better brother.

Better.

He didn't cry now for Alfred or Erzsébet.

He cried for Roderich.

Beyond 'thank you', what he really wanted to say to Roderich was, 'I'm _sorry_.'

Sorry.

Roderich was everything he had ever wanted to be.

* * *

Missed them again.

How did this keep fuckin' happening? Always so close, _so_ close, and then they slipped away, right when Toris' hand was getting warm. Escaped. Fuckin' found them, and just as quickly lost them.

Toris clenched his hair in his hands every time the news came back bad, and looked over his shoulder to make sure that Ivan wasn't standing nearby.

Ivan didn't ask how it was going. Didn't need to, really—he knew that it _had_ to be going well, because otherwise Toris was a dead man. Funny how their own life in danger really drove a person to put more effort into their work.

Ludwig was ever oblivious. No clue that his brother was clawing through Siberia.

Actually, Ludwig seemed increasingly oblivious to anything that wasn't Ivan. Still humored Raivis and liked the attention, but didn't ever seek him out. Still did whatever Irina said, but her power over him was only that; Ludwig seemed to have no more personal interest in her. Toris barely even got words anymore, and when he did, Ludwig usually just tossed them out rather curtly and irritably.

Every day, it felt as though Ludwig was getting all the more bored of Toris.

Toris hunted Gilbert with a ferocity he didn't really knew he had, because Ludwig was really the only thing keeping him alive now, and when Ludwig's interest in him finally dissipated for good, then Toris was left completely to Ivan's good graces.

...and that wasn't a good thing anymore. Didn't used to be that way.

Harder and harder to engage Ludwig now. Harder to get him alone. Harder to get his wandering eyes still. Harder to see him. Harder to recognize him. Harder to feel him. Ludwig drifted farther away.

Couldn't even get Ludwig to speak to him first now, and if he wanted a word from Ludwig, then it was up to Toris to try and get his attention, and after that, it was actually somehow harder to get Ludwig to stop sneering at him long enough to grace him with a word.

He slunk up and said, 'Hi, Ludwig.'

Ludwig just stared at him, and then lifted his chin with a curl of his lip. Bust.

He sidestepped Ludwig in the hall, and said, 'Morning, Ludwig.'

A noncommittal grunt. No go.

He reached out, in a moment of braveness, and placed his hand on Ludwig's shoulder. Ludwig lifted his brow, hooded his eyes, and glanced down at Toris' hand with nothing less than disdain.

The only thing that Toris could cling to, he supposed, was that Ludwig still didn't lash out at him, verbally or physically. Somewhere in there, perhaps, there was still a part of Ludwig that might have cared for Toris. For how much longer? Ludwig's patience was ever waning, and Toris wasn't able to compete with Ivan for his attention.

Every day, Ludwig was farther across the river.

Days after Toris had picked up that phone and sent Ivan's men over the wall, all he ever did was listen to the radio, and wait. Waiting for the news to come back. It came, finally, and Toris had every intention of trying to let Ludwig in on it, Ivan be damned. Anything to try and wake him up, to try and bring him back a little from the edge of that black hole.

The paper in town had it on the front page that morning, and Toris knew it would be on the radio too. He slunk into the office, as Ludwig amused Raivis in the hall, and sat down at the desk. Toris tuned the radio in and out, and finally heard what he wanted to.

_"...news out of the Austrian Embassy. Yesterday, ambassador Roderich Edelstein and his wife, Er—"_

He sat up straight, and looked around. Ivan wasn't in sight.

Quickly, Toris poked his head around the corner of the office door and called, gently, "Ludwig."

Ludwig lifted his head, serenely, and gave Toris a bit of his time.

"What?"

"Come here."

Ludwig obeyed, because he felt like it, and drifted silently into the room, sitting in the seat that Toris offered him. The newspaper sat on the desk, folded rather strategically and facing Ludwig's direction. The radio was still going on in the corner.

"What do you want, Toris?"

The way Ludwig was sitting, leaning an arm back above the top of the chair, one leg crossed over the other, would have offended him any other time, perhaps just because the stance of it was so goddamn superior, but it seemed hardly a concern now.

"Nothing," he said. "Just thought we could listen to the radio. Talk. Been a long time since we talked."

A brief curl of Ludwig's lip, and then a rather droll smile.

"Sure. Why not?"

As if Ludwig were doing Toris a favor by sparing him his attention. His own smile was stiff when he sat, too, and he stayed quiet enough. The hard part now was getting aloof, dreamy Ludwig to focus enough to notice these things going on around him.

The radio was still going on about it. Well. Just about the ambassador, though. That kid, Ludwig's little friend, didn't get noticed. Kids like that, in school and still nobodies, the papers never cared about them. Not even a mention. That wasn't news to a hectic world.

Toris edged himself across the desk, closer and closer to Ludwig, nudging the paper with his arm in the hopes that the movement would draw Ludwig's eye. Didn't, but, after a second, Ludwig lifted his head, ever so slightly, and tilted his ear towards the radio, as if perhaps catching a whisper of something. Just the faintest of interest.

Toris held his breath.

It was beyond disappointing when that sudden flash of attention vanished, and Ludwig turned his head back to Toris, saying, drolly, "You're not talking."

Oh.

"Guess I'm not."

He tried again, keeping quiet even though Ludwig was catching on to him. Fuckin' Christ, just listen to the damn radio. That was all he wanted. Just for Ludwig to listen to the words coming out of the radio. He didn't even have to speak Russian. All he had to fuckin' do was pay enough attention to hear Edelstein's name. Why was that proving so hard? They kept saying it over and over again.

It became obvious that he was the losing the battle, with the radio and with Ludwig's short attention span. Ludwig's foot started tapping soon after, and Toris knew that he was starting to slip away. Before long, Ludwig would get up to seek out Ivan.

So, he gathered up his nerve, and tried to initiate a little.

"Ludwig."

Ludwig paused, and waited patiently still, staring at him without even blinking. Couldn't match that gaze anymore.

"Why don't you stay with me today, Ludwig? Stay here."

"Why?"

Hell. He couldn't say, 'Because you should be mourning.'

So, instead, he tried, tentatively, "Stay with me. Rest a little. Don't you feel tired? Some...some good people died, the other day. Aren't you tired?"

The closest he could get to implying to Ludwig that something awful had befallen those he had once loved without actually saying it aloud. Hadn't Ludwig felt anything? When Edelstein and his wife took their wedding vows until 'death do us part'. When his stupid American friend stopped talking for good. Hadn't he felt something?

Ludwig crossed his arms over his chest, hair glinting in the sunlight through the window, and when he smiled, Toris was sure he shuddered a little.

"Tired?" Ludwig finally uttered. "I feel fine. Ivan's alive, isn't he?"

That smile.

Toris just sat there, dumb and silent, and wished he could have found the courage to admit it. To say, 'I just killed everyone that ever cared about you. Aren't you angry?'

Wanted Ludwig to be angry with him. Someone should have been angry with him. Someone should have cared. Not that anyone would have had to, if Toris had just controlled his temper and had refused Ivan's order. Too late, now, and Ludwig seemed hardly bothered. If he had said it, would Ludwig have reacted at all? Like he had said, Ivan was alive and well, and maybe that was all Ludwig cared about anymore.

Fine.

For a second, Toris felt a little stupid for even thinking it. Because Ludwig hadn't felt a damn thing. Ludwig had already killed; people dying didn't strike that same nerve it had before. Even if he _had_ said it, Ludwig would have just stared at him, lifted a shoulder, and said, 'So what?'

Ludwig didn't care. No going back. The event horizon had been breached.

And Toris didn't know how long Ivan had been standing there in the doorframe.

Hadn't seen him come in. Hadn't heard him. Hadn't felt him. But he was there all the same. The radio was still going strong.

A movement caught Toris' eye, and before he even realized that anyone was there at all, Ivan had barged into the room and barked, in that terrifying, booming voice he used to intimidate, " _Ludwig_!"

They both jumped.

Ivan was towering over them, arms straight at his sides and shoulders squared, feet splayed wide and stance quite ready for war, and even though he had screamed Ludwig's name, it was Toris on whom his eyes had settled. Staring at him so hard that Toris was pretty sure he was starting to burn a little. Toris hadn't ever heard Ivan say Ludwig's name like that, not like that, and the first time it happened, it was Toris' fault. Ha— _that_ figured. It usually was. Ivan's old mantra; when in doubt, blame Toris.

Ludwig whirled around so fast that he nearly slipped right out of the chair, and it stung Toris a little, his appearance, as he scrambled to his feet.

Seein' Ludwig like that.

Pale and wide-eyed, mouth open but completely voiceless, heart beating so hard and fast that Toris could see his pulse going to town in his neck, standing up and yet standing down at the same time. Shoulders and head low in submission. Only a short, quick glance at Ivan, and then Ludwig's eyes went straight to the floor and didn't come back up again. Chest heaving in fear and adrenaline.

Toris could see, then, that Ludwig wasn't truly fearless. Not really. When it came down to it, when everything was said and done, Ludwig had one great, very real fear.

The only thing Ludwig feared was Ivan.

When Ludwig finally found the courage to speak, all he said, in a terrible whisper, was, "I'm sorry."

Ivan hadn't even asked for an apology or an explanation. Ivan wasn't even looking at Ludwig, still staring Toris down so fervently that Ivan might have forgotten Ludwig was there at all.

Toris might have foundered under Ivan's stare if he weren't so astounded by Ludwig. By that confident Ludwig that looked at Toris as if he were dust. By the way _that_ Ludwig had completely fallen apart at one scream from Ivan. Alarming, almost, how quickly that Ludwig could just turn into Toris when Ivan made him do so.

Maybe Ludwig wasn't so far ahead of him after all.

Hard to think anything too grand of Ludwig then, the way he was cowering. His voice shook. Low and weak. Not the way confident Ludwig usually spoke nowadays. Hardly a beseeching, passive wisp. For a moment, Toris had almost been reminded of the real Ludwig. That dumb, awkward kid that had disappeared. Could he really have still been there, somewhere? Hard to say. If he was, then he was so deep and buried that only the deathly fear of Ivan would ever bring him out.

Ha. 'I'm sorry.' Sorry. For what? Ludwig hadn't done anything wrong. Ivan wasn't even angry. Couldn't Ludwig tell? Not angry. When Ivan was angry, it was obvious, in the way he stood and the way he looked. Not angry now; agitated, certainly, but not truly angry. At least, not with Ludwig. Ivan had just heard something he disliked and jolted Ludwig into a panic before he could start thinking too much.

All those wires, crossed here and there. Ivan could hit the brakes whenever he wanted.

Ludwig's hands were shaking when Ivan finally said, sternly, "Ludwig. Out."

Toris didn't have time to panic.

Ludwig left, as quickly as he could, and Ivan whirled on Toris before Toris could even start trying to get away. A hand snatched his collar, and nearly lifted him off the ground.

Ivan shook him, and hissed, furiously, "Do you want me to _shoot_ you, huh? Is that you want? You want me to fuckin' shoot you? Because you're doing a goddamn good job of makin' me think that that's what you want! What's the matter with you? Huh?" A look down, and Ivan snatched the newspaper off of the table and crumpled it in his hand, giving Toris another good shake in the process. "Hurry up and find him, kill him, and I'll fuckin' shoot you and get it over with, if that's what you want so bad! Stop fuckin' around and put your attention where it should be. You're already on borrowed time, Toris."

Well.

Not much of an incentive to speed things along, was it? Not if the reward was a bullet. Find Gilbert, get shot. Don't find Gilbert, get shot. Couldn't win.

Ivan let him go, threw the newspaper in his face, and stomped out. Toris had almost thought he was off the hook for once in his pitiful life, mostly anyway, until Ivan stopped in the threshold, turned back around, and said, "Come on."

Aw, shit.

Toris wanted to stay right where he was, thank you very much, but his feet were already moving. Following Ivan, and when he was in the hall, Toris could see that Ivan already had Ludwig's arm in a vice-grip. And when Ivan started dragging a complacent Ludwig up the stairs, Toris' feet felt so fuckin' heavy that he couldn't really walk anymore. He knew exactly where Ivan was going. He could see it already, in his head.

That door. That terrifying door.

Too scared to go and yet too scared to stay. Somehow, he got up those stairs, and felt as though he were miles away the whole time. Dread. Hadn't been in there in so long, so long, and seeing that fuckin' door again was almost enough to have him slumping against the wall and start crying.

Ludwig just looked _dazed_. Like he didn't know how the hell he had even gotten there.

That door.

Ivan reached out, and Toris flinched and fell back, feeling alarmingly as if he were going to burst into tears at any second. Hadn't been in there for _years_ —he'd tried goddamn hard to never be in there again. Anything and everything, to avoid that room. His pathetic attempt at evasion was in vain. Fuckin' Ivan didn't even grab _him_ ; he stretched out his hand, and grabbed Ludwig by the arm.

And Toris could only watch with something close to horror as Ivan hung Ludwig in the threshold of that door by his collar. Ludwig's hands had gone to Ivan's wrists, but he didn't struggle, and didn't protest. Still looked so lost. Confused. Ludwig might not have been able to say how any of this had even come about.

A miserable, burning pang of guilt. Toris had been the one to turn on the radio. Hadn't been Ludwig's fault. Ludwig hadn't even been paying attention. His fault.

Maybe Ivan thought the only way to be sure that Ludwig didn't remember a goddamn thing was to lock him in that room and make him forget _everything_. To make sure that, if by chance, Ludwig had heard Edelstein's name, then it wouldn't matter once that door shut.

By Ivan's standards, this was the old two birds, one stone. Erase Ludwig's memory and remind Toris of the thin ice he was on. How did Ivan know that it somehow hurt him worse to see Ludwig locked up in there just because he had been emboldened to the point of stupidity when Ivan was still around?

Ludwig just stood there, Ivan's hands in his collar, and they stared at each other.

Toris could hear Ivan whisper, rather easily, "Say, why don't you show Toris how long you can last? Show him how brave you are."

Ludwig, dazed as he was, somehow still tried to smile, and managed a slow nod.

Brave?

Bravery had nothing to do with _that_ room, and nothing to do with this situation. Not a goddamn thing. But then, Ivan couldn't exactly say, 'I'm throwing you in here so that you'll forget I made Toris kill the man that raised you.'

Instead, maybe it was easier to try and give Ludwig some kind of reason, even if it was one that made no sense whatsoever.

A long time, that Ivan stood there, staring at Ludwig's and running hands up and down his neck, as if letting Ludwig go for any amount of time was going to be just as much torture for him. Hardly, but Ludwig seemed suddenly determined all the same, and nodded again. Maybe Ludwig saw an opportunity to impress Ivan and was leaping upon it. See how long he could last, and impress Ivan and show up Toris.

Ludwig was crazy, too.

Eventually, Ivan managed to take his hands off of Ludwig, kissed him on the forehead, and backed up.

Toris could only stare at Ludwig, feeling more like it was the last time. Anything that went on behind that door seemed like eternity. Like this would be the last time he'd see Ludwig's face.

Ivan was smiling at Ludwig, as he said, "I can last as long as you can. Make me proud."

Ridiculously, Ludwig's chest puffed a little, and he said, in a stronger voice, "I will."

A final stare, a final transmission between them.

And the door shut.

Then, Toris wanted to say, 'His gun, you didn't take his fuckin' gun, he's gonna shoot himself, go take his gun,' but, as before, he couldn't really find his voice.

Ivan stood there before it for a long time, and Toris thought that maybe Ivan's hands were shaking a little when he raised the key to lock it. Jittery, perhaps, that he would have to be without Ludwig for a while. When Ivan finally turned around, the stare he sent Toris was enough to make Toris feel like he was the one behind the door after all. The last time Ivan had looked at him like _that_ , Eduard had gone missing and Ivan was ripping Siberia apart.

Ivan didn't touch him, though, not that time, and it was probably only because Ivan knew that Ludwig's torment was enough torture for Toris. Still, when Ivan walked past him, he stopped long enough to whisper, "I can't wait until Raivis is older so that I can give him your uniform and put you out of your misery."

With that, Ivan was gone.

Toris stood there for hours, staring at the door, and wishing that he had just left Ludwig alone.

His days were numbered, it seemed.

He had no doubt Ivan was telling the truth; Raivis had wanted his uniform from day one, and as soon as the damn brat was old enough, Ivan would let him take over Toris' duties, and take Toris out back and shoot him. Raivis would do anything Ivan wanted, anything at all, without hesitation. Without second thoughts. Raivis would probably excel where Toris fell short. Would probably act more ruthlessly than even Ivan had meant him to. Raivis would fit right in with Ludwig and Ivan, since he admired them so and wanted nothing more than to do everything they did. Raivis just wanted to be like _them_.

Ha. He'd been overshadowed first by Eduard. Then by Ludwig. Now his damn job was being usurped by a fuckin' fourteen-year-old. Couldn't catch a break. Ludwig had ruined everything.

Funny, how Toris loved Ludwig so much and yet it was Ludwig that had brought about his end.

It took him a long time to finally walk away from the door and back into the office. The only thing he could do, to take his mind from Ludwig, was to hunt down Gilbert. Hard to focus, though, as the days dragged.

His mind wandered everywhere, to everything.

In a couple of years, it would be Raivis sitting at this desk, wearing this uniform. Ah, hell, probably not _this_ uniform; Raivis would probably be wearing Ludwig's uniform, and Ludwig would be no longer colonel but maybe major general. Lieutenant general, if Ivan were feeling generous enough.

Toris would be buried in the backyard somewhere.

Oh, Ludwig. Stupid kid. All he had had to do was just let Gilbert go and be done with it.

* * *

Days.

Ludwig beat his own record.

Thirteen days. The longest two weeks of Toris' life. Thirteen impossible days lost in oblivion, and, as Ivan burst into Toris' bedroom in the dead of night on that last day and ripped him up from his bed and dragged him down the halls and up the stairs, Toris actually wondered who had broken first.

Maybe Ludwig could have lasted longer. Maybe it was Ivan that had lasted thirteen days before cracking without Ludwig at his side.

They reached that terrible door, and when Toris saw the way Ivan was fumbling through the keys, he was actually pretty goddamn sure that it was Ivan who had called it quits. A first. Couldn't stand to be without Ludwig, without someone worshipping the ground he walked on. Couldn't stand not having someone feeding his ego. Couldn't stand not having Ludwig _loving_ him.

Finally, Ivan managed to stab the key into the lock, and opened the door.

Toris just stood there like a fool, stiff and numb and waiting to see the damage done. All for a fuckin' radio.

Ivan flipped the light on. White. Nothing in sight at first. Ivan stepped inside, and Toris hung back, reluctant to get any closer to that door. Just in case. No sounds from within.

And then, suddenly, the gentle murmur of Ivan's crooning. No response for a while. Toris wondered, dumbly, if maybe Ludwig had fallen over and died. If he had taken his gun out of his belt.

Not this time; a shuffle from within, a movement and a whisper, and then suddenly Ivan was back in the frame, a wobbling Ludwig beside of him. Not really standing on his own so much as Ivan was holding him upright, but still very much alive.

Toris almost didn't recognize him, the way he looked. Covered in blood. Cut all over. Clothes disheveled and torn. Barefoot. A shaking hand was held over his eyes, trying to keep the light out as his sight had to readjust from days of darkness. Gasping breaths that barely seemed to make it in all the way. Strange, muffled whimpering, almost lost to the air. Paler than white. Yellow, almost. His hair was darker from dried blood. Gaunt. Had lost all of the weight Ivan had been so determined to put on him.

The gun was very much untouched.

Death.

Oh. All Toris had done was turn on the fuckin' radio. That was all. Just a radio.

Still, someway, Ludwig was able to stay upright when Ivan let him go, although he had to rest against the doorframe. Still standing. Wouldn't ever understand how. Seemed like nothing could ever take Ludwig down. Ivan's hands flew up to Ludwig's bloody face, thumbs running over cheekbones, and Toris shuddered a bit at the slow, creeping smile that spread over Ludwig's face, even as his hands continued to shield his eyes. So happy to be with Ivan again that none of his injuries seemed worth dwelling on.

Those two. What would happen if they ever found themselves without the other? Toris couldn't imagine.

Ivan started whispering, then, spouting praise as he always did when Ludwig was concerned, and Toris could see the steady slouching of Ludwig's stance. About to go down, and hard. Whatever was keeping him upright was starting to fade.

Still, Ivan cast Toris a glance, and said to Ludwig, "Come on, you're so close. Show Toris how to do it. Go to the bedroom. You can walk. Come on."

If Toris had any expression on his face then, it was probably horror. Horror when Ludwig, barely-conscious Ludwig, somehow took a step forward, and then another. Eyes still squinted shut and barely able to breathe, he leaned up against the wall and started dragging himself along, slow as could be, but walking all the same.

Horror.

Toris was caught still, under Ivan's eyes, and could understand what that look was saying.

'See? He'll do anything for me.'

Ludwig would have done anything at all for Ivan, no matter how far out of bounds it may have seemed to other people. Ivan hadn't taken Ludwig's gun away before locking him in there, because Ivan hadn't given Ludwig orders to shoot anything, and he knew Ludwig wouldn't act with command. Those two. Had to be those two.

Ludwig started the descent down the stairs, but Ivan didn't follow him, apparently quite content to terrify Toris by staring at him. Fuckin' Ivan was just showing off his trophy. Not for too much longer, though.

A horrible, sickening thud. Ludwig had collapsed halfway down the stairs.

Toris, jolted out of the immobility of Ivan's gaze, turned around and jumped down the winding stairs, although he couldn't say why. He wouldn't have dared to touch Ludwig now, not even to help him upright. Too dangerous, even more so in this state. Like tryin' to corral a wounded lion. No thanks.

Ivan's heavy steps followed him, but with much less intent. Ivan wasn't rushing. Didn't really need to, he supposed. Ivan had so much confidence in Ludwig now that even falling down a staircase didn't seem like too much of a problem. Ivan was content that Ludwig could pull through anything. Maybe he could.

Because Ludwig had fallen, alright (the blood on the stairs made that painfully obvious), and yet somehow he had managed to drag himself over to the wall and sit himself up. He had leaned up against it before falling unconscious, and now he just sat there, head hanging down and looking for all the world as though he were minutes away from just falling over and dying.

Ivan went to him, brushing past Toris as he stood there at the bottom of the staircase, still as a statue. It wasn't fear then that kept Toris frozen so much as guilt.

Oh. That hurt. Seeing Ludwig like that and knowing it was his fault.

Ivan knelt down before the unconscious Ludwig and reached out, touching his cheek and murmuring, "Hey! Come on, wake up."

Wake up? Like Ludwig had just decided to take a fuckin' nap.

No stir. This time, Ivan slapped Ludwig's cheek, very gently, and tried to bring him as easily as possible out of that state of shock. A deep inhale, but no visible rousing. Ivan was hardly deterred. Another soft slap, another whisper, and Ludwig started slowly out of his sleep. Toris couldn't say for sure whether it was Ivan's hand or voice that had drawn Ludwig back from the dark, but, hell. There he was. Awake and still alive, Ludwig was finally able to open his eyes, in the dim light of the hall, and turned a bleary gaze up to Ivan.

There was that smile again.

Ivan was practically beaming, and said, "Wake up. You gotta get up."

Ludwig didn't seem to understand anything Ivan was saying, and just kept looking at him as if seeing him for the first time.

When Ludwig finally found some shred of consciousness, it was used to open his mouth and breathe, dazedly, "Hey."

Ivan smiled, and looked somehow amused. Adoration, maybe.

"Hey," Ivan responded, and pulled his hand back, resting his elbow on his knee as he leered down at Ludwig. After a moment of staring, he murmured, "Come on, get up. You're almost there. Don't sleep now. Just a little more! You can do it. Get up."

Get up?

Ludwig was one bad motion away from being dead. How in god's name did Ivan expect Ludwig to stand up? He was barely even breathing. Barely awake. Clinging to life by a thread. How could he have ever been expected to stand?

That man didn't even know where or who he was in that instant.

And so maybe it was one of the most terrifying moments of Toris' life, despite it all, when Ludwig braced his hands on the floor, squinted his eyes in pain, and then somehow, somehow, drew his legs up beneath him and pushed himself up off the floor. God, _how_?

Ludwig stood up.

That effort could have damn well killed him, and yet somehow Ludwig had done it all the same, because Ivan had told him to. He tottered for a moment, and Toris thought he was going down again, but a hand against the wall stopped him short. Leaning against the stone to regain his balance, he stood inert for a minute, and then he lifted his foot. And it must have _hurt_ , everything must have hurt, but he took a wobbly step forward all the same, and carried on.

Ivan's look of triumph was apparent, and he shot one final glance of knowing at Toris before he went off at Ludwig's side. Toris could never have said then, could never have explained how Ludwig had managed that feat, how he had stood up, how he had taken that step. Ludwig and Ivan carried on, and Toris stood back, frozen in the hall.

And it was then that Toris at last let it go.

In that moment, in that _instant_ that Ludwig had stood up, Toris finally let it go.

Ludwig.

Seeing him haul himself up, seeing him defy death for Ivan, seeing that man, if he could be called that, seeing that look of intent even as his body was giving out, seeing him give literally _everything_ to please Ivan, Toris could finally say it. Ludwig was _gone_. He could say it now. Hadn't ever been able to truly admit it, because he had kept on hoping that something would click and his Ludwig would come back.

Couldn't be.

So Toris finally let him go, and accepted that there was no point in keeping the lighthouse on for Ludwig.

He didn't exist anymore.

He let Ludwig go, and washed his hands of him.


	41. Dreamy Glow

**Chapter 41**

**Dreamy Glow**

The white had turned to blue.

The blue faded to a grey.

Couldn't say how long it had been since he'd been laying in the bed, days maybe, and no matter how many times Ludwig looked over, Ivan was at his side. Always smiling at him. Hands all over him, all the time. Whispering, constantly.

"I missed you so much."

Gone.

He'd been gone for years it seemed, but Ivan looked as if he hadn't missed a beat, and Ludwig just enjoyed the never-ending attention Ivan showered him with as the soreness slowly started receding. Couldn't remember much, but that didn't seem to matter. Not when Ivan was hovering over him constantly. Nice, to be fussed over by that man.

It never ceased to astound Ludwig how gentle Ivan's great hands could be, when he made them that way. When he focused on it and took interest in what he was doing. Just light, barely-there brushes over his skin, and Ivan patched up all of his wounds with so much care that sometimes he poked his tongue out as he concentrated.

So Ludwig, absolutely enamored, always looked up at him, and said, "I love you."

Ivan lit up, every time, and Ludwig felt like the sun had come out. After that darkness.

That place.

The darkness that time had been strange. Couldn't remember too much of the first instance, but he felt as though it had passed differently. The first time had been spent losing his mind and himself. This time had been spent losing his mind and _missing_ Ivan. Hadn't ever missed anyone, anything, the way he had missed Ivan. To not be able to see that face. To hear that voice. Nothing in that room scared him anymore, nothing frightened him now, but to not be able to have Ivan was absolutely tortuous.

Nothing else had mattered.

No unwelcome visitors had stopped by. No arguing with phantoms. Just himself. Spent years up there holding conversations with himself, and waiting for Ivan. Staring at the door for days on end without moving a muscle.

Waiting.

Ivan had come back, as he always did.

Couldn't really remember getting out or getting here, couldn't remember when Ivan had opened the door, but he didn't spend too much time thinking about it. It was done and over, and Ivan had come back.

For the next few days, Ivan didn't leave his side. Worth it all, worth everything, worth all that pain, just to have Ivan paying him so much attention. Ivan was the only person that had ever made him feel like he was the only important thing around.

Days melded into each other.

As his strength started returning, being in bed was getting more stifling. Ivan wouldn't let him up, not until Ivan was satisfied that he could stand without harming himself. He grew increasingly restless. Ready to get up and about.

More days, and then _she_ called.

Night.

Couldn't sleep much anymore. Too much pent up energy. Too much thinking.

Suddenly, sometime long after midnight, the phone rang from down the hall.

Ludwig looked over, but Ivan was asleep. Didn't stir.

It was only his restlessness, sick of being in the bed, that made him finally haul himself to his feet and try to get to the phone. Didn't know why, really. He hadn't ever picked up the phone. Hadn't ever been in a position to. He was now, with everyone else asleep, and maybe it was his newfound understanding of Ivan that gave him the gall to even try it.

This was his house, too.

Somehow, he pulled himself up out of the bed, after a great wobble that nearly had him falling flat on his face, rested his palm against the wall, and pulled himself along. Still had enough sense, somewhere in his muddled mind, to grab his gun off the dresser and put it in his belt. A force of habit now.

The phone kept on ringing. The sound of it echoed in the hall.

Getting down the stairs was harder than he had thought it would be. Maybe Ivan had been right to keep him still. He wasn't quite back up to speed yet. Made it all the same, and the ringing grew louder as he approached. He had no fear of answering the phone, not now, although no doubt it was nothing he would understand, and when he trudged into the office, there was no concern following him. No fear. Ivan wouldn't care if he answered.

He reached out a shaking hand, picked the phone up, put it against his ear, but didn't say a word. Let them speak first. Nothing right off, aside from static and silence. Felt like hours. Maybe because he was so damn dizzy. A great effort, just to stay standing.

Then, suddenly, from within that pulsing silence, a croon.

_"Allo!"_

Ludwig stood there for a still moment, staring at the phone with a furrowed brow. Unexpected. Unpleasant. Hadn't missed that voice, certainly, but absolutely recognized it. He couldn't have ever forgotten the sound of her voice. Something that made even Ivan shudder.

Crazy Natalia.

Who did she think she was, calling _his_ house? Calling his Ivan. Ivan was his.

A moment of static over the line, and then she chirped again.

_"Allo!"_

Feeling his territory being tread upon from a rival, feeling threatened and invaded, he dropped his head, brought the phone up to his mouth and rumbled, gruffly, "Hello, Natalia."

The static crackled. A whisper so ghostly he could scarcely dissect it from the white noise. The line was cracking. Communication garbled.

He waited in silence.

And then there was a giggle.

Soft, high-pitched, saccharine and feminine, insane, and the giggle evolved into something like a cackle, and then into full-blown, roaring laughter, and he stood there, clenching the speaker in his hand and staring at the wall with a low brow. Hated the sound of her voice, even after so long away from her, and that goddamn laugh was somehow making him feel crazier than that room did.

After a minute or two her laughter dissolved back down into giggles, and when she finally spoke, her voice was breathless and eager as she gasped, " _I know_ you!"

He curled his lips into a grimace, and even though she was hours away, it felt as though she were sitting up on his chest again, clenching her fingers in his hair. He reached up, irritably, and scratched his head.

" _You haven't come to visit me_ ," she whispered, silkily, and he scoffed, and held the phone all the tighter.

"Sorry," he drawled, "Been busy."

" _No doubt. I hear you've been fitting right in._ "

Her fuckin' voice. Couldn't stand it.

The way she looked at Ivan.

"And how's that?"

" _Oh... I have friends. Say, what was your name again, colonel? Don't think I ever caught it_."

"Ludwig."

The moon glowed in through the curtains.

He leaned against the wall, feeling faint and weak. She still riled him up enough to keep him standing, though.

" _Ah. Ludwig. Such a handsome name. I'm sure it sounds sweet coming from Ivan, doesn't it? For now, anyway, until he gets tired of you and finds something new. He always does. Why don't you just go home? Let me help you. I'll get you out of there. Isn't that what you wanted? Go home before he gets bored with you."_

Ludwig stayed silent, and let her say what she would.

For all the good it would do her. In the end, for all her words, _he_ was the one that warmed Ivan's bed. No one else. That wouldn't ever change. Leaving was no longer an option. She had had her chance, so long ago, to help him get out, when that had been what he had wanted. Too late. This was his house now.

_"Or! Better yet, why don't you just go ahead and shoot yourself? It would be easier for the both of us. Just kill yourself. Ivan doesn't really love you, you know. You have a gun don't you? Go on. Why not? Everyone else is dead."_

Static.

Everyone else, whoever they may have been, didn't matter.

He smiled, pushed the wall a bit to steady himself, and when he spoke, his voice was beyond fervent. "Unnecessary. Can't say I care much about everyone else. Maybe you should take your own advice."

She giggled again, hardly bothered.

_"You're cute, you know. I can see why he likes you. But he won't forever. So. Come on. Why don't you get out of there?"_

Ludwig snorted, and would have rolled his eyes if he weren't so exhausted.

A creeping agitation.

What _was_ this? Why was she calling? What could she possibly have wanted? He didn't understand, but he knew he was actually beyond agitated. If she had called to speak to him, that was one thing, but the thought of her calling Ivan, trying to talk to _him_ , was somehow infuriating. The thought of anyone trying to undermine him and get into Ivan's affections. Couldn't stand it.

All he muttered then, was a tired, rough, "Don't ever call here again or I'll come out there and shoot you."

A silence.

He was almost certain that he could hear her mind whirring away.

A smooth change of voice then, perhaps a softening, and she tried a different tactic. As if, somehow, she was trying to coax him.

_"Say, don't you want to go home?"_

He was already home.

_"I have someone who's looking for you. You've had some fun. Time to get out of there now. Come on, you remember how to get here, don't you? Come to me, and I'll get you home. You don't belong there. You need to go back to Berlin where you belong."_

_That word._

A rush of anger, so strong that it completely overrode the twinge of panic he felt at the mention of _that word_. Didn't even think twice about her comment of someone looking for him. Who would be? Nobody there on the outside. His fingers contracted on the phone as his pulse hammered.

How dare she!

Beyond the rage, a sense of indignation. Offense. This was his house. His land. He belonged here as much as any one of them. Ivan was his. Always would be.

He could barely hear his own voice when he rumbled, feeling absolutely enraged, "I won't ever go back there. But I'll come down to see you, alright, if you want me to. I'll come down there and we'll have a talk, if that's what you want. Call here again and I'll come down."

Her voice changed as much as his did, then, and that gentle tone of coercion turned into a sharp hiss. No doubt she hated him just as much as he hated her, and no longer deemed him worthy of the effort it took to pretend to be concerned.

_"So! You think he's yours now, huh? Who are you? You're nobody! I won't ever give him up. I won't ever stop. Ivan is mine. He always will be. As long as I live."_

Fury.

He was so _angry_ then that the only thing he could think of to do was to hiss, "Then don't expect to be alive for long," and pull his gun out of his belt.

Couldn't shoot her right then, because she wasn't there, but something had to suffer his wrath, and it was the hapless phone that wound up getting it.

Ivan was _his_.

Aiming the gun at the phone, having no care that it was the middle of the night and that everyone was asleep, he pulled the trigger, and the silence was shattered by an explosion. The bullet tore a hole through the phone's center, smoke and sparks shot up, a final crackle of static, and then everything fell still.

Her voice was gone. For good.

So fuckin' _angry_.

Long after her voice was gone, he could still feel the adrenaline pulsing in his veins, and hear that laugh echoing in his ears.

He stood there, immobile and feeling somehow triumphant, as the phone smoked in its final moments and the gunpowder filled the stale air. He looked around a bit, waiting for all of them to come rushing into the room in fright and ask him what had happened, but nothing stirred from above. Everyone slept still. The benefits of a big, stone house whose inhabitants drank too much for their own good.

Placing the gun back in his belt, he retreated, leaving the broken phone to fizz out alone, and set a course for the bedroom.

Irritation.

If she had intended to push his buttons, then she had succeeded. Anger and frustration. This couldn't come to pass again, of that he was certain. Her calling once was enough. Too much. One way or another, Ludwig decided then, she had to go. If he had to take the car himself and drive down, then so be it. She had to go.

Scaling the stairs without a sound, he crept up and slipped inside the bedroom, where Ivan still slept away. Ivan. That man belonged to him. Crawling over into the bed, he braced his hands in the mattress and fell forward, resting his weight on Ivan's chest and dropping his head down until his lips were against Ivan's ear.

"I love you."

A stir beneath him, as his words and weight penetrated the haze of Ivan's deep sleep. Hands on his waist. A whisper of his name.

Ivan's eyes opened before long, with a deep inhale, and then there was a smile. Fingers clenched in the fabric of his shirt, and he could feel Ivan's breath on his neck as he whispered, huskily, "You alright?"

More than alright, as long as Ivan was in the bed. Ludwig could only nod.

Slow, lurching movements and uneven breathing as Ivan roused steadily from sleep.

"What's the matter?" Hands up his back and sides, as if searching. "Stitch come undone?"

Hardly.

Something had come undone, but not any of his stitches, and when he grabbed Ivan's face and kissed him as hard as he had strength left for, it finally seemed to get through Ivan's thick skull that nothing was wrong at all.

The hands fell still, and Ivan seemed surprised, more than anything, at Ludwig's sudden boldness.

The possessiveness he felt then might not have been normal, but they weren't, either, so when Ivan's hands became a little rougher, Ludwig was quick to lean down and start whispering in Ivan's ear. It felt absolutely necessary that he let Ivan know that this was his bed, and that Ivan was very much his as much as vice versa. It wouldn't have ever happened, but it felt necessary to let Ivan know that his being replaced was not an option. He'd shoot Ivan, before he ever let himself be replaced.

By the time positions had shifted and he found himself beneath Ivan, Ludwig was feeling increasingly secure.

His.

Whoever was looking for him, assuming that someone actually was, could keep on all they wanted. Natalia could keep trying all she wanted. He had found his stable ground, and wasn't going anywhere.

Hours, it felt like, that he kept whispering into Ivan's ear, that Ivan's hands couldn't stop running over every part of him, and by the time Ivan fell above him and pressed him down with his full weight, Ludwig had long since been content that his territory was still very much intact. The borders were secure.

Natalia's words evaporated like smoke.

Ivan was his.

And that was that.

* * *

Finally, a day came when Toris found himself not looking around corners and sneaking about.

For once, he could walk proudly down the hall.

Found 'em.

As a matter of fact, it was five days after Ludwig had picked himself up off the floor that Toris had finally received the call he had been waiting for. Only, the call had come from the phone in the foyer, the private number, because the phone in the office had apparently done something to piss Ludwig off.

Toris had only asked him, when Ivan had finally let him out of the bedroom, 'What happened to the phone?'

Ludwig looked over at him through heavy eyes, chin resting on a balled fist as he sat at the kitchen table, and drawled, 'What phone?'

Okay, then.

Toris took Ludwig's hint, and left it well enough alone. That man terrified him. Anyway, a busted phone couldn't dampen his mood, not then, and neither could a frightening Ludwig. A phone was easily replaced, and Toris couldn't worry about it.

Not when he had finally found Gilbert and Eduard, holed up in a hotel and being absolute sitting ducks without even being aware of it, not when he had them cornered and trapped. Not when they didn't even know he had crept up behind them. Not when he could finally go up to Ivan, and proclaim victory, although it was still a little early to do so.

Couldn't help it, almost; he was so fuckin' _desperate_ for Ivan to praise him that he was ready to tell Ivan that he had _found_ them, even if they weren't dead yet. So desperate for Ivan to be proud of _him_ , for once.

So he went into the office, where Ivan was crouched on the floor, hooking up a new phone, and stood there in the frame until Ivan glanced up at him through pale lashes. A crinkle of his nose, a narrowing of his eyes, and Ivan carried on with the cables without so much as a word. Toris wasn't worth the effort it took to open his mouth. Then, yeah, but that was because Toris hadn't told him yet.

Excitement.

Maybe he was shuffling a little, maybe the air around him was as excited as he was, or maybe Ivan could see the way he was suppressing a smile. Maybe the constant moving of his hands had caught Ivan's attention.

Whatever it was, Ivan finally looked up at him again, and asked, rather casually, "What?"

Ivan was in a good mood. That was even better. Maybe Ludwig blowing the phone to hell had been hilarious to him.

Well. Time to say it, then.

Toris took a deep breath, let himself smile a little, and stood up straight and at attention. "I found them," he said, shoulders high and chest puffed, and maybe some part of him was waiting for Ivan to smile and say, 'Good job!'

He felt proud. Accomplished. Found 'em, after so long, and Ivan _had_ to be proud of him. Had to be. This was still _his_ fuckin' job, no matter how crazy Ludwig was or how hard Raivis stared at his back.

Toris waited for praise.

A long stare, maybe a heightening of Ivan's brow and a loosening of his face, but there was no jump upright, no shout of victory, and no kind words for Toris.

Instead, Ivan just said, with a scoff, "So kill 'em. Why are you tellin' me? Just kill them."

Disappointment. His excitement deflated, and so did his smile. His shoulders slumped before he was even aware it, and his hands had fallen still. Before he knew it, Toris' brow had lowered, and he almost felt like sighing. Shouldn't have stung as much as it did.

'Good job.'

Was that so hard to say? Nothing he ever did was good enough. Not like Ludwig, who could do no wrong. Couldn't ever seem to show up Ludwig, no matter how hard he tried.

Feeling as disheartened as he no doubt looked, Toris just said, "Alright," and went back for the door.

As he retreated, Ivan called, "Wait."

Toris stopped still, and was certain he was holding his breath in anticipation. Heart hammering. A twinge of exhilaration up the back of his neck. Oh, _please_ acknowledge him! Say something. Anything. 'Good job, Toris.' Tell him that he had done something _right_ for once.

Ivan stood up, rested his palm on the desk, gave a half-smile, and then said, "Wait. Let's let him make the official order, shall we? Wouldn't that be poetic?"

Toris felt himself slump again, although he tried hard not to.

_Him_. Figured.

Tired and lethargic, Toris just nodded. Ivan didn't even let him go fetch Ludwig, and was quick to dart by Toris and into the hall. Toris lingered there, alone and irritated, and glowered at the desk, running a hand absently through his hair. Felt so agitated suddenly. Fuckin' Ludwig. Yeah, sure! Why not? Why not let Ludwig make the official order to kill his own fuckin' brother. Sure. Poetic, alright. He'd done everything else. Why not? Why the hell not? Let Ludwig kill Gilbert, then.

But _tell_ him.

If Ivan were really brave, he'd tell Ludwig damn well who he was killing. He'd tell him.

When Ivan came back, a wobbly Ludwig in tow, Toris looked up and saw nothing there that he recognized. Just two crazy men with no sense of the world outside. Ivan led Ludwig over to that great map in the wall, twisted him around so that Ludwig's back was up against his chest, and when he rested his chin on Ludwig's shoulder and wrapped arms around him, Ludwig smiled.

Crazy.

Ludwig probably didn't even notice Toris was there, not when Ivan directed Ludwig's attention to the map. The map. For what? Toris hadn't even told Ivan where the hell Gilbert was, and Ivan didn't seem to care enough to ask. Maybe just seeing it was enough to make Ludwig focus.

A quiet, fond whisper.

"Ready to get back to work?"

Ludwig nodded, eagerly, despite the wan shade of his skin and the shadows under his eyes. He seemed quite happy to be staring at that map again, at that world in his head that he owned, and Toris had no doubt that he was very proud that Ivan had let him come 'back to work'. The last time Ivan had led Ludwig over that map, Toris had seen the outcome. This time, maybe it would be worse, although no towns would burn. Worse, because Ludwig would be sending a death-sentence to someone he knew very well, to someone he had loved once, without even knowing it.

Wished Ivan woulda told him, and see how eager Ludwig looked then.

"So, Ludwig—"

_Lyuuudovik!_

Toris shuddered.

"—tell me. You remember last time? How you put everything together? Let's do it again. There's another little group, a lot smaller, just a few of them. How do you want to do it? We can get them while they sleep, or we can wait for them on the road and chase them down. What do you think? Which would be more exciting for you?"

A flash in Toris' mind of Gilbert, sleeping in a creaking hotel bed, Eduard sitting up and drinking, those two, not even knowing, thinking about how they were going to go on in the morning. Eduard laughing at something Gilbert had said. Gilbert, in some other place, clenching a younger Ludwig to his chest as they slept on the floor after a long day of roughhousing. Gilbert's pale fingers brushing over Ludwig's face with nothing less than absolute adoration. Ludwig smiling.

Oh. _Tell_ him.

'So, Ludwig, how to do want to kill your brother? You know, the guy that you did all of this for. The man you woulda died for once. Remember him? Do you want to terrorize him first in daylight and scare the hell out of him before you shoot him, or just kill him in his sleep?'

Ludwig looked at that map like he'd been in the army his entire life. Like he owned everything he saw. Like that world was his for the taking. Like he could have gone out to any one of those cities and set it ablaze if he wanted to. Then he smiled, leaning back wearily in Ivan's great arms, and reached out to run cool fingers over the map.

A gentle snort, and then Ludwig spoke.

"Why wait? If they want to get anything done then they shouldn't be sleeping in the first place."

Ludwig didn't sleep anymore.

Toris felt more agitated than surprised, but was at least relieved that the more merciful option had been chosen. Not that it mattered. Ludwig's order was a formality only; in the end, it was Toris' call, and Toris had always intended to move in at night.

Wished, still, that Ivan had told Ludwig the truth. Test that loyalty a little.

At Ludwig's words, Ivan's wolfish grin had widened, and he looked over at Toris from behind Ludwig's head, pale eyes on fire and hands still clenching Ludwig rather possessively. What he whispered, in Russian, made Toris shudder all the more.

"You see? You see how he is? He's my own mind. You see how easy it was for him? Didn't even have to think about it. He doesn't play by that world anymore. He won't ever leave here. He'll kill anyone I ask him to. He'd give the order to raze all of Germany to the ground if I asked it of him. He was meant to be here. Can you see it now, Toris? Ludwig is mine. Now go kill him. Go. I want you to go. I want you to be there. I want you to stand over his body and make goddamn _sure_ that he's _dead_ , because I won't ever let Ludwig go. I told you already. I'll shoot us all. Go. Now."

Toris could only stand there, frozen, and stare at Ivan.

_Lyudovik, Lyudovik, Lyudovik, Lyudovik, LyudovikLyudovikLyudovikLyudovik—_

The sound of that name, from Ivan's lips. Hated it. Ivan would never let Ludwig go.

Ludwig just smiled away, maybe enjoying the different pitch of Ivan's voice since he didn't understand the words.

Ludwig had made the order. Time to go, but...

No, no, that wasn't _fair_ , though. None of that was fair. Ivan hadn't told Ludwig the truth. Hadn't told him who it was. Hadn't told him who he was killing. Ludwig had done it so easily because Ludwig didn't know. That wasn't fair. Not fair.

Ludwig turned his head and lifted his eyes to Ivan then, and asked, dreamily, "Are we going out again?"

A short silence, and then Ivan broke into a smile and reached around to grab Ludwig's chin.

"Not this time. Next time. We'll go together next time."

Next time.

If Ivan were really brave, if he really wanted to play roulette, then why not let Ludwig go with Toris? Why not let him stand before Gilbert and see if all of Ivan's talk held up in the real world? Why not see if Ludwig was all machine yet?

Ivan spoke about bravery all the time, but when it came to Ludwig, when it came to risking that thing he had in his hand, Ivan wasn't brave. Wouldn't take any chance at all of having Ludwig slip away.

If Ludwig's only fear was Ivan, then perhaps Ivan's only fear was of losing Ludwig.

Ivan and Ludwig should never have encountered each other.

Together, they were a whirlwind; a hectic, frenzied hurricane. A perfect storm. Ivan, providing leadership that lost Ludwig needed, offering support and oceans of confidence and fearlessness to a man who had been desperate to know who and what he was. The boost that self-conscious Ludwig had needed. And Ludwig provided just the right foil for Ivan, who had needed someone to bolster him and further extend his own boldness and audacity. Ivan had needed someone to see him as a god in order to start acting like one. Ludwig was just as smart as Ivan, but in a different way. Ivan was intelligent when it came to manipulation and using people; Ludwig was book-smart and logical. Putting those two minds together was like mixing chemicals and hoping they didn't blow up.

They fueled each other. Eerily similar and yet very different.

For the most part, Ludwig was calm and cunning, able to foresee outcomes and repercussions that brash Ivan might not have. Unwaveringly loyal to anyone he finally gave his affection to. Ivan was intrepid and relentless, able to come up with plans and ideas that aloof Ludwig would never have thought of on his own. Obsessively focused on someone who loved him.

Ivan needed to be dominant to thrive. Ludwig was content to be dominated. Ivan needed to be in complete control. Ludwig was willing to surrender. Ivan needed to manipulate and to be obeyed. Ludwig was willing to be manipulated, and obeyed without thought. Ivan was sadistic. Ludwig was masochistic.

But both of them were dangerous, and both of them were insane. Both of them had little qualms about hurting anyone that wasn't the other, and both of them enjoyed being on top of the world. Both of them felt as if they were above the rest of humanity. Both of them loved having other people's lives under their boots. Both of them were killers now.

And who knew? Maybe one day they really would own the world, as they had always wanted to. Unstoppable. Maybe the end of the earth would be born of their minds coming together. Lovebirds of destruction; together they caused nothing but havoc, but parted they would die in a supernova of annihilation, like stars. Had to be together; couldn't be one without the other anymore.

Together, always, or else.

Toris couldn't help but wonder then if Ludwig would have even cared if Ivan had told him the truth. If Ludwig had known, maybe he still would have had the same answer. Ludwig loved someone else now, had given himself to someone else, and there was no more room for Gilbert.

Lovebirds.

Ivan had said 'go', so Toris went, because, in all honesty, he felt stifled and terrified in that house, with Ludwig there. Couldn't stay in that room anymore. Couldn't be around them when they were together. With those two _together_. Ludwig scared him.

He left that night, under Ivan's orders.

Didn't say goodbye to anyone. Didn't look over his shoulder and try to catch a glimpse of Ludwig. Didn't see Irina or Raivis. He didn't pack anything; as always, it never occurred to him to just high-tail it out of there for good. It was just another routine. Get his boots on, get his gun, gloss his uniform, and go wherever Ivan told him to go.

That was all.

He might have had other dreams for himself long ago, but he couldn't remember those. The only dream he had now was to stand before Ivan and to have Ivan reach forward and clap him on the shoulder. To hear him say, 'I'm proud of you, Toris.'

'Good work, Toris.'

Ludwig may have owned Ivan's love and attention, but one day, Toris would force Ivan's eyes up, if only for a second.

One day, he'd impress Ivan.


	42. Night Terror

**Chapter 42**

**Night Terror**

So far, so good.

They had driven for weeks before they had finally stopped. Before Eduard felt safe enough to stay in another hotel instead of sleeping in the car. Before their thin nerves were repaired enough to take a chance. They looked like hell, they knew that much. Sleeping in a car for two fuckin' weeks was close to torture.

So was thinking.

Gilbert couldn't even stand to think, couldn't stand to wake up, couldn't stand to _remember_. The only way he was surviving now was complete and absolute suppression of the past few weeks. None of it had ever happened. That was all. No one picked up the phone because they were all busy. Too busy to answer, was all. They were busy. Occupied. Alfred was in school, even now, and Roderich and Erzsébet were just off on vacation somewhere together.

They didn't pick up, but they were alright, somewhere.

Couldn't stand it otherwise. Had to pretend, or he'd just fall over and huddle up and be out of commission. When Eduard picked up the phone to call that women, Gilbert turned his eyes away, and had to fight off the urge to think about it, because if he did he would start bawling. They were just busy.

Roderich was mad at him for something and was ignoring his call.

Anything, anything at all, not to think about it.

To make it all worse, it had been weeks that his imaginary Ludwig hadn't come back. Somehow, Gilbert had resigned himself to the fact that he was gone for good. Could feel it in a way, that Ludwig had vanished and abandoned him. Had to focus now on the real one. Had to focus on Eduard. Had to focus on the invisible men behind them.

It was both a relief and a terror to walk inside that hotel, for the first time in so long. Eduard was looking over his shoulder every second, scanning the streets and the other buildings, looking pale and petrified.

Gilbert was sure they looked alike.

Still, Gilbert wouldn't lie and say that it hadn't been gratifying to plop down on that bed and bury his face into a pillow. Comfort, for once. Eduard left the room a while later, after forcing Gilbert to stay put, and it was fuckin' terrifying, _terrifying_ , to sit there on the bed with wide eyes and stare at the door, waiting for Eduard to come back. Couldn't remember the last time he'd been so _scared_. Waiting like that, not knowing if Eduard would return.

Couldn't stand to be alone. Missed Eduard like crazy, even for that short time.

Wondering, wondering, wondering, wondering when Eduard would come back.

If.

But he did, not too long after, with a paper bag in his hand, and Gilbert was so relieved and so suddenly ecstatic that he leapt off the bed, stalked forward, and snatched Eduard to his chest in an embrace, hard as he could.

Wanted to cry.

Eduard humored him, and said, as he patted Gilbert's back gently with one hand, "Jeez, I didn't know you missed me that much! You shoulda said something! I would have hurried."

Eduard's teasing didn't really get through. Everything was building up. Felt overwhelmed. Trapped. Alone. Couldn't call. Couldn't talk. Couldn't say, 'I'm sorry.' Felt like he was drowning. _Oh_ , god, he missed Ludwig _so_ much, so fuckin' _much_ , hadn't seen him in so long, and Roderich didn't fuckin' pick up.

So, when he felt his wall finally fall, he pressed his face into Eduard's shoulder, sucked in a great breath, and burst into tears.

His fingers clenched into Eduard's shirt.

For the first time in so long, he cried in front of someone without trying to hide it, and felt like a little kid. A long, stiff silence, as awkward Eduard might have been thinking of something to say. In the end, guess he couldn't come up with anything good, and he just wrapped his arms around Gilbert and let him bawl. Felt like hours that he stood there, clenching Eduard and crying his eyes out.

The whole time, Eduard didn't move, and didn't say a word.

Gilbert was grateful for that, more than anything, because he was already embarrassed. Hated crying, hated for anyone to see him in a vulnerable position, but, for once, he wasn't too bent up about it. Actually, when he thought about it, he felt better. Not his proudest moment, sniveling into Eduard's shirt and soaking him with tears, but he felt better for it.

When he was finally managed to breathe again, when he couldn't really cry anymore even if he had tried, when his eyes were sore and red, Gilbert slowly pulled himself back, wiped his nose with his sleeve, and grumbled, gruffly, "Sorry."

Eduard just said, "Don't worry about it. How you feeling?"

A slow, honest, "Better."

Despite his sore eyes and sore chest and sore head, he felt _better_. Some pressure had come off. A removal of stress that had been building for months.

Eduard smiled, and put a hand on his shoulder.

"Good! 'Cause I got something for ya. Come on."

Eduard dragged him into the bathroom, and Gilbert went with him, still wiping at his nose and yet feeling lighter. Feet didn't seem so heavy now.

Eduard sat him down in the tiny shower, pulled his shirt off, and grabbed the paper bag. Gilbert let Eduard do whatever he pleased, and when Eduard pulled a glass bottle full of liquid out of the bag, Gilbert asked, curiously, "What's that?"

"Ink."

"For what?"

To answer that, Eduard just said, "Cover your eyes."

Gilbert did, and shivered a little when cold fluid hit his head.

"Told you we were gonna dye that hair of yours. I probably should have done it earlier."

Oh. Made sense, he guessed, now that they had been caught.

Gilbert sat there, shirtless and still sniffling, and could hear that Eduard was trying very hard not to laugh. A strange feeling crept up, but not an unpleasant one for once. Almost felt a little hope, or something close to it. More than a little odd, to sit there in that dingy hotel bathroom, fingers tangled in his hair and hearing someone laughing. Hadn't heard laughter in a _long_ time.

Eduard's hands scrubbed the ink deep into his hair, and Gilbert reached up to wipe at his eyes whenever he felt it trickling down.

"Why are you laughing?" he finally asked, over Eduard's giggles. "Huh? What? Do I look stupid?"

"Oh, yeah," was Eduard's immediate chirp. "You look like a Beatle!"

Gilbert snorted at that, despite himself, and almost laughed. Almost.

Minutes of something that was comforting, as Eduard scrubbed away, and then he said, "Lean your head back."

He did, eyes squinted shut, and when Eduard ran fingers carefully over his eyebrows, Gilbert was sure he was actually smiling. Easy to pretend that it was Ludwig. Missed those hands.

When the water started running, when those fingers started rinsing excess ink out of his hair, when a towel was placed over his head, Gilbert finally opened his eyes, and was surprised. It wasn't Ludwig. He knew that already; that didn't surprise him. What surprised him was that he very much saw Eduard, and was content with that. That he could look at Eduard and feel like he'd made a friend. Hadn't ever really had any friends. There had only been Ludwig.

Eduard had been with him for months now, and, beyond anything, Gilbert realized that he was _grateful_ , and said as much. As Eduard toweled his hair dry, he heard himself whisper, "Thank you."

"Don't thank me yet," Eduard said, quite cheerily. "No offense, but you look pretty terrible. Dark hair does not go with your skin."

"I didn't mean that," Gilbert said, as he squirmed around to look Eduard in the eyes. "Thank you. For taking me. For coming with me. For helping me. I don't... Well, if you hadn't helped me, I woulda never got this far. So. Thank you."

Grateful that Eduard had given him the time of day. Grateful that Eduard had bothered to help him, when he hadn't deserved it. Those words were always so hard for him to say, thank you, and yet somehow he had managed it.

Eduard stared at him for a while, still crouched on his knees, and then tried to smile. "No problem," was all he said, although it looked as though he had wanted to say something else.

Probably had wanted to say, 'Don't thank me yet for that, either, because we probably won't make it.' Didn't want to say it aloud, though, and Gilbert was grateful for that, too.

A rather rough tussle of his hair, and Eduard's smile was back up when he said, "Well! Go look at the damage. Just don't punch me."

Another laugh.

Gilbert hauled himself up, walked to the mirror, and the good feel of Eduard's laughter died when he finally looked at his reflection. He didn't see himself. For a second there, with that dark brown hair, he only saw Roderich.

The threat of crying came up again, but Eduard saw it this time, and reached out to punch his arm, gently, drawling, "Hey, don't cry about it! You look bad, man, but not _that_ bad. If you want, I'll just shave it off."

Gilbert gave a coarse, shaking laugh, and shook it off. Just pretend. Carry on.

When they went back into the room, Eduard sat down on his bed, and this time, Gilbert found the courage to sit down beside of him. Didn't want to be alone. Eduard didn't seem too bothered by his presence, and, as usual, it didn't take too long for Eduard to start drinking. Gilbert found himself scooting ever closer, until their knees bumped together, because he was miserable and lonely and if he didn't have someone to _touch_ then he was going to go fuckin' crazy.

Eduard glanced over at him, seemed to understand, and smiled as he suddenly repositioned himself so that he was laying correctly on the bed, kicking up his legs to shove them over Gilbert's as if he were a footrest. Without any hesitation, Gilbert reached down, grabbed handfuls of Eduard's pants, and was more than content to stay that way.

Hadn't ever had friends, and this normal human interaction was a little alien to him. Felt good, though, even just to be used as a glorified pillow. Gilbert wondered, out of the blue, if Ludwig and Alfred had ever sat like this.

Oh. Hurt.

To distract himself, Gilbert asked, suddenly, "Where are we?"

Eduard smiled as he poured himself a glass, rested up against the headboard, and replied, "Krasnoyarsk. We're close now. Just a day more."

"Until what?"

Eduard pushed his glasses up his nose, hesitated a bit, and then said, carefully, "She's waiting for us in Lesosibirsk. We'll meet her there, and she'll make sure we make it out to Mirny without dyin'. Best as she can, anyway. Can't say I trust her much, once we actually have to be with her, but looks like we'll have to take a risk."

That woman. Meeting her seemed suddenly as terrifying as meeting _him_.

Scared.

"Why's she so important, anyway?" Gilbert finally asked, having thought it now for months, so that he wouldn't start panicking.

Eduard glanced up at him, put back his glass, and then said, simply, "Because she's exactly like him. She thinks like him. She knows what he'll do. I sure as hell don't."

Gilbert shuddered. He'd have gladly spent the rest of his life trying to avoid people like that, yet he found himself on the trail of one. Eduard saw his fear, and reached up a leg to nudge his shoulder with a foot.

"Ah, it'll be alright! Say, before long, we'll all be going back to Berlin. Hell, I think I might go, too, this time. In a couple of years, we'll be sittin' in bars, telling everyone about our ride through Siberia and how we beat the man."

Bullshit.

That was the most bullshit Eduard had ever tried to sell him, that _anyone_ had ever tried to sell him, and it was the sheer absurdity of it, the sheer ridiculousness, that made Gilbert start laughing. Couldn't stop, it seemed, and he laughed so hard and so long that he started crying again, but not quite out of misery that time.

Eduard just smiled at him, blue eyes calm behind his glasses, and poured another glass.

After that laugh, after that first intake of breath where Gilbert didn't feel like he was being suffocated, he found himself smiling, and realized that he felt good. Good. A foreign feeling after so long. Hope. For the first time, he felt almost positive, as if some part of him really thought that maybe they could pull this off. That maybe this crazy, stupid plan would actually work, that maybe he really could get Ludwig, and get home, and the three of them could sit in some shitty bar and have stories for years.

Stupidity.

Some part of him bought it. Confidence that had been lost long ago in the snow came back up. Eduard seemed content enough to see him laughing, and that might have been the first time that Gilbert had seen a real smile spread over Eduard's face. A crinkle of his eyes and a showing of his teeth, and he nudged Gilbert with his foot again, just because he could.

Oh, he felt _good_.

They sat there well into the night, long after they normally slept, and just talked. Hadn't talked to anybody in so long.

Eduard told him stories about life before all of this mess, about exciting things he had done before he had gotten mixed up in Siberia, and in return, Gilbert told Eduard stories that he hadn't ever told anyone. Told him everything. Told him about the times that he had gotten Ludwig into trouble despite Ludwig's best efforts to be the 'good' one. He told Eduard about the times he had been in jail. About his ventures in clubs. All of his trouble-making.

He told Eduard about the time that Ludwig had been so _mad_ at him that he had locked Gilbert out of his own house and forced Gilbert to climb up a fuckin' tree just to reach the window above and crawl inside, and when Ludwig saw that he had still gotten in, he had dragged Gilbert back to window and tried to toss him right through it.

Eduard listened to everything he said, and most of the time he laughed so hard that he nearly snorted vodka out of his nose.

Felt good.

Gilbert realized then how much he missed the world. Not just Ludwig, but everything. The first time in so many years that he was clear-headed. Not high. Not drunk. It felt good. It was just a disgrace that it had taken this, all of this, to get him to figure it out. Well! Better late than never, and Christ, when he got Ludwig, he was gonna make it up, all of it, everything.

Hoped Eduard would really hang around, too, because he was the only person that had ever bothered to get to know Gilbert.

Now that Roderich...

Nah.

Couldn't finish that thought.

Gilbert glanced at the clock, a while later, and saw that it was already three in the morning. Wasn't sleepy, and Eduard was still going strong, quite sober still, and laughing so much that his voice was almost gone. Not once, in all those hours of talking, had Gilbert's hands let go of Eduard's legs. He found himself clinging to Eduard now as much as he had to Ludwig. Couldn't stand to be alone.

It had started drizzling outside.

Looking over, Gilbert met Eduard's eyes, and asked, "So, when we're done, are you really gonna go to Berlin?"

Eduard leaned back, lazily, and leered, "I might! I've been thinking about it a lot. I think this has worn me out. Helping you makes me wanna go into retirement. So, yeah. Maybe."

Gilbert smiled.

Eduard teased him, again, adding, "I mean, if you're gonna miss me so much that you're gonna start crying again—"

Gilbert was quick to grab a pillow and throw it into Eduard's face.

In the middle of that comfort, in the middle of Eduard's laughter, in the middle of the first time that Gilbert had come close to feeling something even a little like _happiness_ in so many years, there was a knock at the door.

A fuckin' knock.

Out in the middle of this godawful hotel in the center of godawful nowhere. A knock. Just a short, quick rap. Nothing more.

Silence. Hadn't ever known such silence.

Beneath his hands, every single muscle in Eduard had seemed to clench and freeze. A wide-eyed look of terror. Nothing short of horror.

Silence.

A quick, testing jingle of the doorknob. It was locked.

The sound of the doorknob was what jolted Eduard, and he sat up so fast that he fell straight off the bed, and flew to the window. Eduard yanked the pane up so hard that Gilbert was surprised it didn't shatter, and then a hand was on his shoulder. Eduard pushed him forward, and then hands were suddenly in his belt. He looked down, dumbly, to see Eduard stuffing a gun and a map into his pockets.

Everything felt so slow. So distant.

A meeting of eyes.

Eduard tried to smile, and breathed, "Lesosibirsk, remember that. Lesosibirsk."

Wanted to say, 'I don't have to remember that, that's what you're here for.' Couldn't. Gilbert couldn't even think, let alone move, and didn't twitch again until Eduard was shoving him out the window as he had once before.

Eduard let him go first. Always let him go first.

He gripped the pane, tried to lower himself down, and when he had one leg out, there a was a bang, as someone or something rammed into the door. A surge of fright, and Gilbert's other leg was pushed out furiously by Eduard, who hissed, "Go! Get out, go! Just run! Go on, I'll be right behind you, don't wait! Go—"

Fear.

Trying to drop out of that window was terrifying, but he did it, somehow, clinging to the edge and glancing down. Seemed so much higher than the second story when he dangling above the ground like that.

Tried to steady himself for the fall, and was rudely interrupted. A bang, a fuckin' _gunshot_ , so close by him, scared him so badly that he cried out and lost his grip. A dull thud, a shooting pain up his arm as he landed on his elbow, and he laid there on the ground for a long second, the wind knocked out of him and eyes wide as he stared up above.

Another loud, ear-shattering bang. Screaming. Something moved beside of him then; a flash of mud, kicked up by something.

A bullet. Right next to his fuckin' _head_.

No one in the window above him. Musta come from another building. Air came back from the sheer panic, Gilbert hauled himself up and started running, as fast as he fuckin' could, and kept waiting for the sound of Eduard hitting the ground.

Oh, _Eduard_ , jump already—

The streets were dark. Slick. Didn't know where the hell he was going but ran anyway, because staying still wasn't an option when someone was fucking shooting at you. He ducked into an alley a few blocks down, chest aching and lungs stinging, and waited, too petrified to really go much farther.

Another shot. It echoed in the night.

The rain fell. Freezing. Gilbert waited there in the slush of melting snow and rain, crouched down in the alley and holding his arm, head poked around the corner as his heart pounded in his chest with dread. He waited.

Waited.

His hair was soaked with rain. The old ache in his hand flared up. His legs were numb. Chest hurt.

Then voices, loud from the buildings, shadows moving, and Gilbert knew then that he couldn't fuckin' wait anymore. Couldn't wait. If Eduard had jumped without him seeing, then he wasn't going to be standing still, and Gilbert couldn't risk immobility, either. Couldn't sit there like a fuckin' duck and wait for those men to come looking for him. He'd come so far, _so_ far, too far to just sit there and let them hunt him down like that, not when he was so close.

All the same, it was frighteningly difficult to push off of that dirty alley wall, and step back into the street alone. It was beyond dismal, trying to get his legs to move when all he wanted to do was curl up in a ball and cry. To walk, when all he wanted to do was wait for Eduard.

Eduard.

Somehow, he got moving. He walked for hours, always looking over his shoulder and praying, praying, that Eduard would round the corner.

But Eduard never came.

By the time the horizon turned pale pink with the rising sun, the despair swimming through his veins was overwhelming, and Gilbert found himself stumbling along more than walking, dazed and numb. That stupid feeling of hope had long since been shattered. Lost. Didn't know where to go. Didn't know where he was. Too stunned and hurt to even try to look at the map. Just wanted Eduard to show up, grab his hand, and lead him on, as he always had before.

Eduard never came.

He was alone now. Oh. Why hadn't Eduard jumped? Why had Eduard let him go first?

He limped off through the quiet streets of the town, with only his damn gun as a companion, and sometime later, when he had left behind buildings and found himself on a road along a forest, he sat down under a tree, buried his face in his arms, and burst into tears. Alone. Everyone that tried to help him only ended up paying the price for his stupidity. He brought nothing but misery. Eduard never came.

Eduard had let him go first.


	43. Dearly Beloved

**Chapter 43**

**Dearly Beloved**

A long, long time.

Years had come and gone. Faces changed. Personalities shifted. Hair grew. So long, so many years, and yet still Toris had recognized Eduard the very moment he had laid eyes upon him on that paper. He had this time, too. Even though Eduard didn't look at him, didn't move, didn't breathe, Toris recognized him. He couldn't have ever forgotten Eduard, even though he had tried pretty hard these past years.

That face.

Walking through that door, pushing through those men, hoping to _god_ to see Gilbert on the floor and seeing Eduard instead. It surprised Toris, then, that he hadn't really been able to think, even as the men jostled him, trying to get his confirmation and praise.

Just saw Eduard.

The sight of Eduard, in person, after all these years was rather shocking. And to see him like _that_. Inert on the floor, flipped halfway over onto his stomach, one arm up near his head and the other beneath him, a pool of blood steadily spreading from under his chest. Still. Silent. Pale. Glasses askew and hair messy.

Oh.

Words flew in his ears but didn't linger.

"Say, that's him, right?"

"Easy enough. Wasn't it?"

"Sure was."

A hand on his shoulder; felt too heavy. He shrugged it off thoughtlessly.

It was as if he had walked through the door and sank right down into a pit of tar. Stuck. Just stood there, in the middle of the room, surrounded on all sides and yet feeling quite alone, and stared down at Eduard. Eduard, who he had thought was out of his life for good. Who, by all rights, should never have crossed his path again.

Where the hell was Gilbert?

Eduard was a bit stockier now, a little broader, but that was expected; Eduard had still been a fuckin' kid the last time Toris had seen him, same age as Ludwig was. He'd just gotten older and settled into himself quite well. As handsome as he ever had been. Just a little quiet, now.

Why wasn't it Gilbert?

Had his eyes changed color any since last they'd met? Had his vision gotten worse or were the glasses the same ones he'd worn back then? Suddenly wished Eduard would have opened his eyes, if only for a moment, so that Toris could have _seen_ him a little better. So distant. Felt far away.

...shoulda been Gilbert.

Seein' Eduard like that—

"Hey, isn't it him?"

Opened his mouth. Nothing came out.

Toris tried very hard to attribute it to the sheer shock of the situation. The sheer sight of Eduard, after so long. The way it had all come out of the blue and snuck up on him so fast. The way he hadn't ever anticipated it. The way Eduard had been his brother once.

Couldn't explain, though, why he felt so chilly. Why it took him so long to finally say, in an odd, guttural whisper, "Yeah, that's one of them. Get the guys across the street. They better have the other one, or else."

Or else _what_? He was so dazed now he couldn't even be angry, couldn't have shot anyone now in a rage. Couldn't even have lifted his hand. Numb. Couldn't say why. Why he felt like he stood there for hours, and why Eduard seemed so far away. His head hurt, a little, behind his eyes.

He found himself looking up, after a while, at the open window. Curtains, blowing in the wind. Cool air. The sun hadn't yet risen.

Gilbert was gone.

Felt a little like he was in a dream, then, as Toris started walking over to Eduard. Surreal. Distant. Pushing through water rather than air. As if every step he took towards Eduard, gravity had started pressing him down. Eduard didn't move. He stood over Eduard for a long, long time before he finally got his mind working enough to move his leg. Felt like lead. A soft, gentle nudge of his boot into Eduard's side.

Eduard didn't stir.

And that was that.

Vindication. Full circle. He had gotten even. Things he had thought about for so long.

And yet...

It should have been satisfaction that came rushing up then, a sense of contentment, a feeling of justification, but what he felt then wasn't anything like that. In fact, he realized he felt pretty numb. Dazed.

When Ludwig had collapsed on the sidewalk outside that office, that far-away look on his face, as if he didn't know where he was anymore—that was what Toris felt. Felt so lost, suddenly, even though he knew exactly where he was. He had every road, every town, every line of tracks and passages in Siberia memorized, knew every inch of this taiga, even knew the northern tundra for the most part, could have found his foothold right off had he been dropped in anywhere from above, knew _everything_ , and still somehow felt so damn _lost_.

So lost.

Almost found himself wishing that Eduard might have twitched a little at the touch. Move. Just move.

Like Ludwig that day, he had killed. Unlike Ludwig, this wasn't his first time, not even close, so why he did he suddenly need to reach over and grab the edge of the bed for support? He'd killed so many people he couldn't even count them all. Why should this one have been any different? Why did head hurt so fuckin' bad?

Why.

So many 'why's.

He had asked himself, all of these lost years, why. Why Eduard had abandoned him. Why it had hurt him more than being abandoned the first time. Why it had surprised him so much, when he had finally accepted the way mankind was. Why it had been _him_ , when there were so many people in the world. Why he never ran. Why he never tried to be brave, like Eduard had been.

Why.

The guy came back from across the street, and shook his head.

Somehow, everything went all the more numb. Disappointment, mingled with a strange, misplaced sense of offense. Eduard was dead, dead, and there was no Gilbert to show for it. Gilbert had gotten away, somehow, despite Toris' best efforts. Had escaped, even when smarter Eduard had not. Eduard was dead, and Gilbert wasn't. Somehow, someway, that didn't seem fair. As if Eduard had died for nothing.

What a stupid thought; Eduard dying had been the plan all along, no matter if Gilbert had been struck down first or not. Eduard had always been marked, from the second Toris had uttered his name in front of Ivan. From the second Toris had picked up that phone. From the second Toris had looked at that paper and had felt that betrayal.

Toris had always set out to kill Eduard, and now...

Felt as if it were for nothing. Not fair.

Bad enough, all of it, but now he had to tell Ivan. Tell Ivan that idiotic Gilbert had escaped.

His fingers were numb by the time he reached the hotel phone and picked it up. As if even his hands knew that Ivan was gonna blow a gasket and were trying to delay the inevitable. Didn't have a choice. Ivan was waiting.

Dialing out.

He punched the numbers automatically, without thought. The dial-tone sounded miles away.

Ivan picked up quickly.

_"Allo."_

Even as Ivan's voice went into his ear, Toris couldn't take his eyes off of Eduard. Fascinated, absolutely fascinated by the sheer sight of him, as he stood near the edge of the bed and looked down.

Eduard. Had honestly thought he would never see Eduard again. He had let his hair grow out a little. Hadn't shaved in a few days. Wouldn't need to anymore, as it was. Still looked like the kinda guy a man would want to marry his daughter, though, even in that position. Eduard's good-nature could have been seen a mile away. Who could ever have explained why; maybe just his face, his hands, the look of him. The feel of him. The nicest guy.

Good-nature.

...what had Eduard done to deserve this? Almost couldn't remember.

Toris heard himself say, dully, "It's me."

Me.

Eduard hadn't been able to say, 'Toris, it's me! Please don't _shoot_ me!' No chance at all. Maybe he should have gone in and done it himself, so that he could have at least pressed Eduard for an answer before he had died. Could have _talked_ to him—

_"Toris! Tell me!"_ Ivan demanded, and Toris squirmed uncomfortably. _"Are they dead?"_

He looked down, chest heavy, at silent and still Eduard, who had been his friend once, and bowed his head. _Oh_ , his fuckin' stomach was hurting now, too. A pang.

Ivan, so impatient, was already screaming at him.

_"Christ, Toris! Are they fuckin'_ dead _?"_

"Eduard's dead," he finally managed to whisper, on the verge of collapsing into tears for a reason he couldn't even understand, feeling so downtrodden, and Ivan's voice went higher and more urgent when Toris fell silent again.

_"And the other?"_

The other.

Ivan hadn't even flinched that Eduard was dead. Not a hesitation. Not a second thought. Hadn't even skipped a beat. Ivan had loved Eduard once, not so long ago. Ivan had very nearly exalted Eduard up into that realm where Ludwig now walked. Ivan would kill _anyone_.

The other. Gilbert. Ivan wouldn't say Gilbert's name aloud.

Heart lurching, Toris regained his senses, and said, voice cracking with anxiety and something else, "He's not here."

A click.

Ivan was too angry to speak anymore, and had hung up on him.

The phone was too heavy to hold anymore, so he set it down, and sat himself down soon after, on the edge of the bed. The men stood there for a while, as he stared at Eduard, and then asked, "Well, now what?"

A valid question, although his own seemed to be constructed of different intangible thoughts.

Still, he heard himself say, "Go outside and find him. Can't be far. Search the whole city."

They did, running downstairs and into the street.

And it hit Toris suddenly, the second he was alone, what that _feeling_ was. What that godawful sensation was called.

_Shame_.

Regret. Remorse.

Eduard had been his friend. His friend. Eduard had left him, but anyone would have. Anyone would have tried to escape, anyone except Toris, and Toris had tried for so long to blame his own cowardice on Eduard. Eduard had run, and Toris hadn't, and that wasn't Eduard's fault. Not really. The Ivan-Toris had clouded his judgment. So angry that he hadn't been able to see clearly.

Eduard was dead. A betrayal returned. Somehow, he felt worse for it. He'd killed so many people, and hadn't ever felt so damn remorseful. Hadn't ever felt shame, or sorrow, not like this. Hadn't ever sat there and looked at someone and thought to himself, 'By god! What have I done?'

He did now.

Wished, more than anything, anything, that Eduard would have woken up. Would have given _anything_.

If Eduard would have only moved.

For the first time since he could remember, Toris gripped his hair in his hands, ducked his head between his knees, and gave something that was close to a scream.

His brother.

* * *

The most miserable days of his life.

He could say that for certain.

Worse than that first brick being laid, worse then waking up without Ludwig, worse than stumbling into the West and having to knock on that door. Worse than waking up to that water dripping down his neck. Worse than seeing that man for the first time. Hadn't ever thought anything could have been worse than staring up at Ludwig from beneath that grate, and yet here he was.

Alone.

Gilbert hadn't ever felt so low as he did then, with no Eduard beside of him and no one to talk to.

Eduard hadn't come, and wasn't going to. Everyone was gone. On the other side, no one was waiting for him anymore. No one to call. Trudging onward seemed suddenly hopeless. Pointless. Without Eduard, everything within him had seemed to extinguish. No one on either side of the wall. What was the point? Everyone had gone.

Guilt. Pain. Misery.

Missed Eduard _so_ much. So much. Wouldn't ever see him again, no one would, and it was _his_ fault.

Eduard had let him go first, even though he hadn't deserved that.

He had been walking for a week. Hadn't eaten. Just ambling along that road, down towards the trees, stumbling half the time and crying all the time, and every time a car came along, Gilbert jumped down into the coverage of the forest and was pretty sure he was a breath away from a coronary. Scarier than he had ever thought possible, pressed down into the ground, face buried in his arms until the vehicle had gone.

Terrified. Exhausted.

Getting _up_ again felt like trying to move the earth itself. Felt weak. Dizzy. So dejected.

It took him looking at Eduard's map, seeing Eduard's writing upon it, to find the motivation to finally pull himself back up to his feet. Eduard had made sure that Gilbert knew where to go, even if he weren't there anymore, and had underlined the town that Gilbert needed to reach. Only one road, so it was obvious how to get there.

Wished Eduard was here with him all the same.

Took him eight days to reach that small city. Eight long, miserable, horrifying days. Eight sunsets with no one to look over at and say goodnight to. Eight sunrises of no one being there when he woke up. Eight days of looking over, and seeing his side completely devoid of all life. Eight days of no Eduard.

Eight days of being alone, truly and utterly alone, for the first time in his life.

Alone.

Anytime he had ever been 'alone' before had been nothing; there had always been someone, somewhere, that he knew he could eventually talk to. When he had woken up alone on the streets, hungover, he had known that Erzsébet wasn't really gone. She was somewhere, on some other side, and Erzsébet was there to call whenever he needed. When he had slammed a door shut in Roderich's face and whirled around to emptiness, he had known that Roderich wasn't really gone. Roderich was always on the other side of some door. When he had woken up without Ludwig, that first morning after the wall had been complete, he had known that Ludwig wasn't really gone. Ludwig was just on the other side of those bricks.

Not this time.

There was nobody on Erzsébet's side. The door to Roderich opened up to empty space. And suddenly, even though he had tried so _hard_ not to give up that little shard of hope, it felt more and more like the other side of that wall was as barren as his side had been, and Ludwig wasn't there.

Ludwig got closer and closer everyday, and yet Gilbert felt him drifting.

So hard to find the will to go on.

Eight days of wanting to give up. Eight days of almost forgetting why he was here in the first place.

Eight days of nothing, before that nothing finally gave way to houses, and then buildings.

Didn't know where to go, didn't know where she was, what she looked like, so he could only wander the streets, wobbling as he was, and hope that she would just find him. Some part of him hoped _they_ would find him first and put him out of his misery.

He didn't know where he was, didn't know what month it was, didn't know what day it was, and he didn't really care much to find out.

So tired.

The sun had been low in the sky when he had been walking down some street, half-awake and moving mechanically, head so low that sometimes his chin bumped into his own collarbone. So tired, so tired, and then suddenly there had been a hand on his arm. Before he could even look over, someone was tugging him through a door. He looked up in time to see a hotel, rather unkempt and old, and then, before his dumb, slow mind could figure everything out, a door was shutting and someone was in front of him.

Took him a long time to figure out he was in a room, and _she_ was the one who had dragged him there.

Huh. Strong hands, for a woman.

Meeting her for the first time, face to face, was so terrifying that it almost made Gilbert forget about that agony in his head and stomach, when he stood still enough to really look at her. Almost, but not quite. That pain never really stopped.

She was certainly enough to dull it though, even if she wasn't quite what he had expected.

Pretty.

Wondered, dumbly, if he was even in the right place. If maybe she had been looking for someone else and had grabbed the wrong guy.

At first glance, rather nondescript. Just another pretty girl. Blonde and a bit tall, hair combed and tied neatly, dressed nicely and well put-together. A pale blue dress that seemed far too thin for this freezing land, even though he knew it must have been almost summer. Hardly anything abnormal about her. She stood normally, as any other girl, and wore high-heel shoes that were a little too nice for this entire situation. Lipstick, even in the middle of nowhere. As if, beyond anything, she valued her appearance, no matter where she may have been.

"I was looking for you," she abruptly said, and Gilbert shuddered.

That fuckin' voice, though, and those eyes. Nothing about them was normal, that was for sure. Her voice alone made every hair on Gilbert's body stand up on end, and he couldn't even really meet her eyes at all. Might have keeled over. Pools of nothing, it seemed. Couldn't get anything from her.

She scared him.

Still, though, she was all he had, so he felt himself glancing up at her in intervals through his lashes, and then, finally, he gathered the strength to speak.

"You're...Natalia?"

Didn't recognize his own voice. Weak. Breathless. Pale. He hadn't ever spoken like that before, hadn't ever sounded that weak. Hadn't ever let his voice show how damn pathetic he felt, had always kept it loud and forceful and strong even when he hadn't felt that way. Couldn't, now, it seemed. If she had ever known him before, she wouldn't have recognized him either, then.

Luckily, she hadn't, so she didn't see too much out of the ordinary, and finally she nodded her head, before saying, "I didn't catch your name."

"Gilbert."

"Ah." She looked him up and down, no shadow of emotion upon her face, and then she asked, in that crooning voice, "Where's Eduard?"

He thought his face had crumpled a little.

"Dead."

His voice was scarcely audible at all anymore.

_Missed_ Eduard.

"Ah. I could have guessed."

A burn of anger built in his chest. Bitch didn't even seem to _care_. She had known Eduard, hadn't she, had been speaking to him all this time, had been guiding him and warning him, and yet didn't even have the decency to show a little emotion at his death. Eduard had saved him. Eduard had been a good person, a great guy, and that alone should have been something _astounding_ to anyone in this horrible world, everyone on this miserable planet should have felt something when someone good died, should have cared, but _she_ didn't feel anything, and she didn't care.

Eduard had been a good person.

"I'm surprised you're not," she added, and Gilbert could already feel himself slumping.

He was so fuckin' mad that he just felt _exhausted_. So mad. Hurt. Alone. Eduard was dead. Hell, Eduard mighta been the only person on the face of the earth that had ever looked at Gilbert and thought maybe he was _worth_ tryin' to help. Dead now, because of _him_. Felt like crying, then, but didn't even have the energy for that. Dull and numb.

So he just swayed there in front of her, wanting nothing more than to go to sleep, and finally asked, "When are we leaving?"

Just needed to get Ludwig as quickly as possible. Before he gave up. Could feel it creeping over him more and more every minute, the overwhelming desire to fall over and just give up.

Kept fighting it off. Couldn't give up on Ludwig.

She stared at him for a long time, observing him and seeming to look him over, and then Gilbert could see, for the first time, some sort of emotion upon her face. Wasn't what he wanted to see, either. Disdain, almost. Disappointment. As if she had expected something else. As if she had thought Gilbert would be different, and he could see then, too, the crinkle of her brow.

The sharpening of her eyes as she narrowed them just a bit. Scrutinizing him.

And then she spoke, and what she said made Gilbert's breath leave him as his heart sank down to the floor.

"I changed my mind. You came all this way, but you shouldn't have. I can't help you anymore."

The world stopped spinning for a second.

Felt as if a bomb had gone off outside, for the way his ears were ringing.

Shock. Desperation. His hands were shaking. He opened his mouth, tried to speak, and nothing came out. Just a hiss of air.

Didn't understand. He didn't understand. Couldn't. He had come all this way. So far.

Eduard was _dead_.

She spoke again, a bit more sternly, and added, "You have to go back home. I was helping you because I thought you could take him, but you can't. I think you're too late. I'm going back home. You should do the same. Let him go."

The shock started boiling over into something he couldn't ever have described.

Felt everything, and nothing.

A horrible, gnawing desperation. Wrath.

He found his voice again.

"You _can't_!" he cried, as his entire body shook as much as his hands. "You can't, you can't! Don't you get it? Don't you know what I've done to get this far? Don't you? You can't back out! You have to _help_ me! I don't know what to... I can't do it alone, I can't. You have to help. I came all this way because you were going to _help_ me! You got us this far, please, please, you gotta get me there. You haveta help me!"

His voice had come out, alright, but in yet another tone he didn't recognize. High-pitched, shaking, breaking, thin, absolutely pitiful.

He couldn't go back. Woulda done anything, anything she had wanted, as long as she helped him. He didn't understand why she was suddenly changing her mind. Why she had come this far and was now backing out.

She was unfazed by his outburst, and just shook her head.

"It's too late. I hadn't thought that it would go so far. I didn't think... Well. It doesn't matter. You can't go any farther. It's too late. I messed up, I admit it. I thought you could still get him, but you can't. You can't take him. You're too late. He's gone. Go home."

Go home.

No, no, he'd come too far. Too far. He'd done so much to get there, to be standing there right now, and the thought of going home without even finishing was incomprehensible. He had come so far for Ludwig, too far just to give up on him, to let him go like that. To throw his hands up in the air and leave Ludwig to the winds.

Roderich didn't pick up the _phone._ Eduard had let him go first.

Everyone was dead.

It wasn't just Ludwig now. Turning around, going home, giving up, would have meant that they had died for nothing. Would have meant that Alfred and Erzsébet had been snuffed out for nothing. Would have meant that Roderich had done so much, had given up so much, for nothing. Would have meant that Eduard had died for _nothing_.

Couldn't stomach that. Couldn't handle the thought of Eduard shoving him out of that window first only to have him go home right after.

He wouldn't. He couldn't. _Wouldn't._

Stubbornly, he shook his head, and said, "I won't. Never, I won't ever go back without him. You help me. Get me there. Help me get there."

Why? Why? Why was she doing this? Why was she changing her mind? Did she see him for the first time and think he couldn't do it? He'd come this far; wasn't that enough? Had something or someone shaken her desire?

Just needed her to help him.

She didn't seem too moved by him, if she could have been moved by anything, and only shook her head again, before saying, simply, "Go home. You lost him. You came too late. Go home."

With that, she gave him one final look over, and then she turned around.

She turned her back on him.

Anger, rising up in full-force, such anger. Hopelessness. Despair. He couldn't get there alone, he couldn't, he couldn't have gone any farther without her. Didn't know how. He didn't really remember pulling the gun from his pocket, but he did remember aiming it at her, blearily.

Remembered screaming, again, "Help me get there!"

He needed her to help him. Just help him.

When she glanced back at him and saw the gun, she didn't even flinch. Didn't even raise a brow. Absolutely unruffled by his attempt to scare her, and it was really Gilbert who was scared, even though he held the gun. Scared to give up, after all of it. Scared to turn tail, after so many others had fallen. Scared of never seeing Ludwig again, never, when Ludwig was the only thing on earth that he was even alive for.

Scared.

She turned back around, as calm as ever, and drummed her fingers nonchalantly on her thighs as she gave him another look over. And then she smiled at him, and said, a bit condescendingly, "Well, if you want, then, I can take you back home. If you can't get there on your own."

_No_ , that wasn't what he _wanted_.

So mad. So terrified.

Didn't wanna go _home_.

He raised the gun into the air in anger, lowered it back down, pointed it at her, and tried his damn best to force some kind of reaction out of her, but no gesture he made could shake her.

When she turned her back again, it was too much.

He felt as if the land beneath him had turned to ocean. Lost at sea.

Felt himself screaming at her, again.

"Don't! Don't you leave me here! You can't! You can't—"

A strike of lightning, and the air cracked. A pain in his hand. A shriek, terrified and high-pitched, and he thought it was _her_ , at first, but then realized that it had been him that had cried out when the gun had gone off.

Gone off.

How?

And, really, he hadn't even realized that he'd pulled the fuckin' trigger at all until she suddenly fell to a knee with a sharp gasp. Thought maybe a sudden storm had come up, that maybe it had been thunder, until she had fallen. Until he could see the red, suddenly soaking her pale dress.

Shock. Absolute shock, so strong that he stopped breathing.

And then, confusion.

Hadn't meant to do that. Oh, Christ, no, _wait_ , he hadn't meant to do that. She couldn't be _hurt_ , he needed her. Needed her. He _needed_ her, he couldn't get there alone, couldn't, couldn't go on alone. Oh, why had she been so fuckin' difficult? Why hadn't she just gone along like she was so supposed to? He hadn't _meant_ to do that. He reached up, as she knelt there, and clenched his free hand in his hair, breathing through his mouth and feeling himself shaking, as terror and panic took over. Hadn't meant to do that. He'd just been so _angry_ —

She was still for a minute, trying to keep her balance there on one knee, and it felt like hours that he stood there and watched her before she finally tottered forward with a whisper. Whatever she uttered then, he didn't understand.

And then she fell silent, and then she fell still, and then she didn't move anymore.

Stillness, so strong and absolute that Gilbert thought maybe time had stopped. But no; suddenly the air came back into his lungs, he realized that his heart was hammering, his forehead was soaked in a cold-sweat, and nausea was rising.

Was she dead?

He was too scared of her, even now, to touch her. Too scared to speak to her. It took him a long time to gather some kind of courage and creep forward, nearly tripping over his own feet, until he had gotten close enough to her to crane his neck forward and try to see some sign of life. Saw nothing. Another minute, another dumb hesitation, and then he leaned over, reached out, and shoved her shoulder gently with his hand. Nothing. Not a thing.

And then, the shock gave way to absolute wrath.

Fury.

" _Oh_!" he cried, as he wrenched his foot back and kicked the nearest table in a rage, "Why'd ya make me _do_ that, huh? Why didn't you just do what you were supposed to do? All you had to do was help me!"

Pointless to scream at her now, but he didn't know what else to do. He hadn't meant to fuckin' kill her, for Christ's sake, hadn't meant to shoot her, hadn't ever wanted to kill anyone, but he had been so angry, so desperate, so scared.

Hadn't ever been that desperate.

He kicked the table again, shrieking something that even he didn't understand, and then he had to rest against the wall because lightheadedness had come up out of nowhere and threatened to take him down. Anger. Panic. What did he do now? How could he go on from here? He didn't know the way. Didn't know where to start. Didn't know which way to go. She was dead. Eduard was dead. Back home, nobody picked up.

Ludwig was gone.

He was alone.

The ocean had turned into outer space, and there was absolutely nothing. Just a black, endless void with no one and nothing else in sight.

Alone.

He wasn't sure how he made it to the door, but he did, one way or another, pulled it open, and staggered back into the street. Made it a few more steps before he burst into tears again.

All he had wanted was Ludwig.


	44. Betrayal

**Chapter 44**

**Betrayal**

He had looked all through Krasnoyarsk, searched every house in that city, and there had been nothing.

Toris might have dragged it out intentionally.

In some part of his mind, he had known all along that even idiotic Gilbert wouldn't hang around there after having been nearly assassinated. Well. After having been nearly murdered; Toris liked to reserve the term 'assassination' for important people. Like Edelstein.

All the same, though, in the end, and it was really only the agony of seeing a still Eduard that had made him drag his feet after Gilbert. Honestly, didn't much feel like it. He had known Gilbert would go to Lesosibirsk, had known that right off, but had decided to hang back and search Krasnoyarsk anyway. Couldn't say why. Bitterness, maybe, for Ivan.

That strange, constant sense of lethargy and surrealism.

Irritation at Ludwig. That awful _shame_. The betrayal, if that was the right word, that he felt whenever Ivan swooned over Ludwig.

All of it, together, everything, seemed suddenly like too much.

Maybe he dragged out the search in Krasnoyarsk just because every time he stopped walking, every time he stopped thinking, every time he stopped looking, he could feel his face crumpling, could feel his composure slipping, could feel himself blinking too hard, and so he had to carry on. Couldn't show any weakness in front of Ivan's guys, any at all, and so he searched that city for days, even though he knew Gilbert was gone.

It had occurred to him, if only in his subconscious, that prolonging his search was giving Gilbert more time, giving him a better chance to get to Lesosibirsk. Giving him a head-start. He was willingly, at least on some level, giving Gilbert a head-start, and he didn't know _why_.

Ivan woulda killed him right there if he knew that Toris knew where Gilbert was and hadn't gone to him right away. Ivan would have come out himself just to shoot Toris.

It had also occurred to him that he really didn't care.

It had been creeping upon him, these last days; restlessness. An odd sense of something that might have defiance. Agitation and the desire to suddenly wound Ivan in some way.

Hate.

Every time he closed his eyes, he saw Eduard's face. Saw that pale face, and he could remember Eduard's smile, even after so long. For it, for that smile, he gave Gilbert a breather, because doing so would hurt Ivan, even if Ivan didn't know about it.

Couldn't last forever, though, and eventually, after a week, Toris had no choice but to call it quits and head out, because Ivan's guys were shifting and shuffling and looking increasingly agitated. As if they were tired of Toris' bullshit, and Toris didn't want them to go whining to Ivan, because then the game would be up. Wanted to drag it out, suddenly. To prolong it all the more, Toris was quick to send those guys off in separate ways. Didn't take too long to get to Lesosibirsk, and Toris wanted to be alone. He picked them apart, and sent Ivan's guys to places he knew Gilbert wouldn't be. Expensive hotels, parks, the such.

Wanted to find Gilbert on his own. Wanted to see him. Wanted to do this himself.

After Eduard, he needed to do this himself. Couldn't stand another round of 'why's, just couldn't.

Maybe, in some way, some bitter part of him wanted Gilbert to get away. Wanted him to get to that house, if only so that the ground under Ivan would shake a little. So that Ivan would be the one to feel fear. So that Ivan would be the one who was faced with losing someone he cared about. Maybe he wanted Gilbert to get there, to take Ludwig, even though he knew that couldn't be, so that Ivan would be the one to feel that horrible longing. That regret.

Couldn't be, though, because Gilbert wasn't smart enough to get away from Toris before Ivan's guys got antsy.

And, in the end, the idiot was _almost_ exactly where Toris had expected him to be. One step ahead, but only one, and easily found. So dumb.

Actually, the only thing in Lesosibirsk that Toris hadn't expected at all was a dead Natalia, in the motel where he thought he would find Gilbert. That was a shock, to say the least. Not that she was _dead_ , nah, didn't give a shit about _that_ , but rather that she was there at all. The hell was she doing out here?

It took him a good while to figure it out.

To figure out that she had been helping them along the whole while. Why he had missed them so many times. Fuckin' Natalia, always so keen to Ivan's mind, had been assisting them, knowing what Ivan would do, and therefore what Toris would do. Getting Eduard farther and farther, until she had missed a step or Ivan's guys had been too clever.

Well. That was a first. Natalia helping somebody. No doubt just to get rid of Ludwig, whom she had hated the moment she had laid eyes upon him. A simple cat-fight between Natalia and Ludwig for Ivan.

Ha. Those two. Two crazy people fighting for a crazier man.

Aw, hell. If he'd'a known that, if he had known she had been slinking around, it would saved him a lot of time. Would have just driven out to her fuckin' house and shot her. Well. Not _him_. Ivan would have, not Toris. When everything was said and done, Toris wasn't really sure that he was brave enough to shoot Natalia. Not her, insane as she was.

She had always terrified him.

Maybe even Ivan wouldn't have been able to do it, either.

...so, then. Why had Gilbert done her in? Had to have been Gilbert. No one else was crazy enough to shoot that woman, especially when she was on your side. Standing in front of Natalia and still being able to pull the trigger. Gilbert had some pair on him, that was for sure, to be able to pull it off.

Oh, Gilbert. So fuckin' stupid, just like Ivan had always said.

And he was easily located. Took all of five minutes to find him after leaving Natalia behind. Found him in the worst looking motel in the city, and it was easy enough for Toris to pick the lock on the door. Couldn't say he wanted too much to cause a scene and draw attention. Wanted to do this alone.

Eduard hadn't moved, at his touch.

When he pushed the door open, silently, he slunk in with his gun drawn.

Gilbert was sitting on the bed, staring out of the window with slumped shoulders. The hair threw him off for a second, but he knew it was Gilbert. That pale, translucent skin, and those eyes. That face. Gilbert sat there, obliviously. Hadn't seen Toris. Hadn't heard him come in. Just staring away out the window, even though nothing interesting was happening out on the street. His eyes were moving back and forth, back and forth.

What did he see?

Would have been so easy to shoot him there and kill him before he had time to be scared, before he had time to realize what was happening. That would have been a mercy, would have been something that Toris could have felt good about, so he didn't know why he suddenly slammed the door behind him to draw Gilbert's attention.

Gilbert looked over at the noise, saw Toris standing there, and seemed to freeze up like a deer, fingers clenching in the shoddy bedding and eyes so wide that they could very well have popped out of his head. The pulse in his neck was going to town.

Stillness.

A sharp inhale, and suddenly, as Toris aimed his gun, Gilbert was nearly hyperventilating, and his wide eyes had squinted a little in what might have been absolute despair. Hadn't ever seen anyone look so defeated, so miserable, so sad. So downtrodden.

Toris had thought that Gilbert would have tried to bolt for the window, try to rush him, try to do anything, anything at all, to get away, to escape. To avoid that gun, to fight for his life.

He didn't.

He just _sat_ there, staring at Toris, immobile and terrified, until Toris finally said, "Get up."

Gilbert took a long time to obey the command, and Toris didn't even know why he had bothered. Coulda easily shot him there where he sat, but felt the need to at least have him stand so that he could get a good look at him. Curiosity, maybe. Just wanted to look. He hadn't gotten the chance to stand before Eduard. Maybe, if he had, if he coulda said something, coulda looked at him, maybe...

If Eduard could have tried to explain _why_.

Maybe.

When Gilbert stood, he had to physically push himself off of the bed with his hands, either too tired or too petrified to get his legs working. A wobble, a totter, and then, with what looked like a ridiculous amount of effort, Gilbert slowly raised his trembling hands in the air, but only to the height of his chest.

A long, silent stare.

Toris almost felt rather fascinated.

Chased this man so long, so hard, and here he was. A little underwhelming, after everything was said and done. For all the trouble Gilbert had been, for everything Gilbert had cost him, Gilbert seemed hardly worth the effort.

It was so easy to take everything as a whole, to take Ludwig's former devotion, to take Ivan's unease, to take Toris' terror, and to envision Gilbert as a broad, strong, bold man with hard eyes and a harder will, someone that had torn through Siberia without a care in the world, someone that had the balls to take on _Ivan_ , of all people, that had the nerve to trek through this land that made grown men shudder, that had the strength to make it so far when others had failed. That had the gall to come and take what had been stolen from him.

So far away from home.

And once upon a time, Gilbert no doubt had been. Gilbert had once been all of that. Nothing, now. It had been easy to envision a Gilbert that would have fought now, cornered like this. Someone who would have raised holy hell to get that gun out of Toris' hand. Not this pitiful thing.

Toris could say that he was thoroughly and utterly surprised. Unimpressed. Hell, even when he had been wailing and bawling the last time, Gilbert had seemed so much stronger then.

Just a shadow, now.

Gilbert looked like he was one light breeze from falling over. Paler than ever and skinnier than he had been the last time they had crossed paths, the shadows under his eyes looked more like somebody had slapped some veils on his face, and, damn, he looked _pitiful_. Stubble on his cheeks, clothes dirty and wrinkled, a crease in his brow from constant fretting. And he couldn't even keep his fingers straight; they curled up onto his palms, as if there was no strength to even bother trying. Couldn't even stand straight, either, leaning as he was from side to side.

Pitiful.

Toris gave him a quick look over, and didn't know why he said, randomly, "That's not a good look for you."

That hair. Pale silvery-blond roots already coming in, mingling with that dark brunet color. An odd, mismatched palate that wasn't exactly flattering. Made Gilbert look paler and sicker than he probably was. For all it mattered.

Gilbert just stared straight at him, opened his mouth, but couldn't seem to find anything to say.

Toris tried to engage him a little, then, maybe to prolong the inevitable. Didn't know why he did that, either. Hell; he was worse than Ludwig. Tormenting Gilbert by pointing the gun at him and makin' him dance for a while when he could have already shot him and had it over with.

This week had been considerably confusing for him.

At last, a long minute later, Gilbert finally found his voice. Didn't plead, though, didn't beg for his life. He seemed rather dazed, as a matter of fact, only half-there, and whispered, roughly, "You're Toris, right? I remember you."

Well.

How kind of him, to remember Toris' name. Surprised a man that stupid and brash had even bothered with details. Didn't think that strung-out son of a bitch had the ability to retain facts at all, let alone a name.

Still, for some reason, Toris inclined his head in acknowledgment, and said, "Gilbert. I remember, too."

Silence, then, as they stared each other down.

Gilbert's gaze kept breaking, twitching here and there as his heavy breathing started to calm down a bit. As if, slowly, Gilbert was accepting his fate.

An awful look of pain and regret crossed Gilbert's face then, and Toris asked, for whatever reason, "How'd you get this far without dyin', huh? Nobody else did."

Gilbert's hands trembled with the effort of keeping them upright. Finally, a weak mutter that bordered on the verge of dying altogether.

"Guess I'm just one lucky son of a bitch."

Gilbert stood there, looking so defeated, and Toris wished that he could make him _understand_. He wished that he could find the courage to say, 'I've come to shoot you, so that it won't break your heart when your little brother tries to.' If Ivan asked it, Ludwig would shoot Gilbert. Wouldn't even flinch. The Ludwig that Gilbert sought had disappeared a long time ago. The dumb son of a bitch just didn't get it. Wished Gilbert would understand.

Toris opened his mouth again, but this time all that came out was a low, weary, "Aren't you tired? Huh? Don't you want me to just shoot you and get it over with?"

Gilbert's arms were slowly falling back down to his sides; he was just too tired to keep them in the air. Toris hadn't pitied someone like this for a long, long time.

Gilbert didn't answer. Somehow, that bothered Toris. Wanted him to interact. Didn't know why. Hated that look of despair.

Wanted to rile Gilbert, wanted him to do something, because Toris wasn't really sure he could stomach shooting the poor son of a bitch if he didn't _do_ something. Shooting someone who was so defeated that their hands couldn't even stay in the air—only Ivan and Ludwig could have ever really found any point in that. He wanted Gilbert to at least do something, so that way he would feel less shitty about the whole thing.

"I saw Natalia back there," he said, a bit offhandedly. "Didn't think you had it in you."

Gilbert looked dazed. Lost. A familiar feeling.

"I didn't mean to," came the almost confused whisper.

"Sure."

Oh. Eduard was dead.

Eduard had been the only person that had ever _smiled_ at Toris.

Gilbert's face was falling as much as his arms had, misery and terror and everything else, and Toris knew it was time to stop teasing him. Time to stop dragging it out. Time to shoot him, and put him out of his misery, even if he wouldn't snap out of it. The merciful thing to do, when all was considered.

So he aimed his gun, Gilbert's face scrunched up, his head bowed, and Toris pulled his finger back.

_—I'll shoot us all—_

Tried to pull the trigger.

_Lyudovik._

He _tried_ , he really did try, and yet somehow he couldn't seem to do it. No matter how many times he tried to move his finger, just couldn't seem to. A million things running through his head.

Couldn't do it.

Kept on seeing Ivan, holding Ludwig's head beneath the water.

Eduard, motionless there on that floor, where he didn't belong. Far from home and with no friends to mourn him. A good man that had just gotten mixed up with the wrong people. Eduard hadn't ever done anything wrong. So few of the people he had killed actually had, come to think.

Still, he kept on thinking. Kept on wondering why he hadn't tried to talk to Eduard first. Kept on wondering how he had lost Ludwig. Kept on wondering why nothing he did was ever good enough. Kept on wondering how Ivan always came out on top.

The worst thing was that _this_ would have been the thing to make Ivan look at him. Shooting Gilbert would have given him everything he had ever wanted, would have made him better than Ludwig, would have made Ivan say, 'Good job.' Shooting Gilbert would have saved him. This was it, and suddenly he couldn't do it. Couldn't get his damn finger to work, no matter how hard he tried.

It was that horrendous feeling of remorse in his stomach that eventually caused his finger to lose grip.

Eduard's death was what spared Gilbert, in the end. That indescribable _hurt_. Couldn't really bring himself to shoot the stupid son of a bitch. Not now. Eduard had been his brother once. Eduard had given his life for this stupid, stupid man, simply because Eduard had always been a good guy. Nothing more. Eduard hadn't ever wanted anything from anyone. Had only ever wanted to help.

Hurt.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, in that part of him he had always tried to ignore, maybe Toris wanted Gilbert to get there. Wanted Gilbert to see Ludwig, wanted Ludwig to see Gilbert, wanted Gilbert to take Ludwig, wanted Ivan to _lose_ , wanted Ivan to fulfill his oath to shoot everyone in that house, because everyone there _deserved_ to be shot. He knew it couldn't be, knew that Ludwig wouldn't turn, knew that Gilbert could never break through to the new Ludwig, knew that Ivan, perfect Ivan, _never_ lost, but he _wished_ it could have been that way. Wished Ivan would just lose, just this once.

He didn't even realize that his gun had been steadily lowering until he felt it bumping into his thigh.

Gilbert's face was still crumpled up, his head was still bowed, he was still breathing through his mouth, presumably looking back on every decision he had ever made and wondering how he and Ludwig had ever found themselves out here. Yeah, join the club.

He felt his hand moving again, then, but this time he looked down and saw that he was putting his gun back in its holster.

The second that his gun was out of his hand, he knew. Ivan would _kill_ him. All those years, unable to run away, and finally he had sheathed his gun. He had finally disobeyed a direct order. Had finally looked upon something Ivan had told him to do, had tilted his head, and had said, 'No.'

No.

Defiance, for the first time. Never had he disobeyed Ivan. Never had he turned. He did now, and he didn't know why, except that his stomach and head hurt and Eduard wouldn't ever smile at him again.

Eduard was dead.

A long silence, longer than any other Toris had ever known, and he didn't know why it took Gilbert so long to finally open his eyes again. Why it took him so long to lift his head and look at Toris, through those bleary, miserable eyes. Why it took him so long to realize that Toris' gun was put away. He stood there, long after Toris had stopped aiming at him, and looked so confused. Stunned. He turned his head, slowly, looking this way and that as if he thought that Toris was just fucking with him and had some other guy there to do the shooting.

It was a few more minutes, stifled in that silence, before Gilbert finally lost his strength and tottered backwards onto the floor. A scoot up against the wall. Gilbert looked up at him, and Toris couldn't say that he had ever seen an expression quite like that. Didn't even know what it was. Gilbert sat there on the floor, looking up at him through dirty bangs, and Toris wasn't really sure whether he was relieved or not that the gun had been put away.

Still seemed so devastated, somehow.

Finally, Gilbert opened his mouth and asked, in a voice that was mostly air, "Aren't you gonna kill me?"

Toris stood there, feeling somewhat surreal, and answered, "No."

Felt like he was dreaming somewhere. Everything felt so misty, as if he had wandered off into some cloud.

Pale fingers dug into the floor, and Gilbert's voice had gone ever breathier, somehow.

"Why?"

Why? Toris had no good answer for that. Had no reason.

He'd killed Eduard.

Gilbert said as much by adding, "You killed him. Why aren't you gonna kill me? You killed him."

All Toris could do then was say, "I don't know."

An honest answer, because he couldn't understand himself, then. He couldn't understand what was going on his head. He couldn't understand why he had spared Gilbert, why he had stopped, why he had let this man live when so many others hadn't. Had killed Edelstein, his wife, that kid, Eduard.

But not Gilbert.

Gilbert seemed to be thinking everything Toris was, though, and glanced up at him again long enough to ask, "Did you kill them? Did you really kill all of them? Are they really dead?"

Maybe there was a glimmer of hope in Gilbert's voice, as if maybe some stupid part of him was really praying that that had been a lie, that everyone wasn't dead after all, that maybe there had been a misunderstanding.

That couldn't be, though, so Toris just looked down at shaking Gilbert and said, simply, "Yeah, I did."

Another fall of Gilbert's face, and then he hung his head, and didn't say another word.

Time passed, and Toris stood there still, not knowing what else to do.

Ivan's guys were probably close to finishing up. What to do. Better go round them up and send them farther out. Make sure they were far enough away to keep Gilbert out of their sights, distracted enough not to notice Toris' strangeness. Shouldn't be too hard; maybe his confidence was just far too inflated, but Toris was pretty sure he was the smartest guy here.

Just had to get Gilbert to stay still.

"Stay here," he commanded, and even though Gilbert didn't look up or answer, Toris was certain that Gilbert didn't even have the energy anymore to move at all, let alone run, so he slunk back through the door and back out into the city.

Kinda hoped, he would, though. Hoped that Gilbert would make a break for it, that he really would run, so that Toris could get a breather and try to get his head back on straight. Maybe Gilbert running would give him the motivation he needed to shoot the bastard and have it all done with.

For all his internal fretting, Ivan's guys didn't seem to notice anything amiss, chattering amongst themselves as they waited for Toris' command. Gave 'em one, alright; go north. The way across the river and out of the city was south, and Toris sent them as far as he could without risking their suspicions. They went without question, because he was Toris, and, whether Ivan liked it or not, whether Ivan appreciated it or not, whether Ivan acknowledged it or not, Toris was still Ivan's right-hand man.

For now.

Restlessness. Wanted Ivan to lose.

On the walk back, he tried once again to gather the will to shoot Gilbert, because he knew that that was the only thing to do. But no; when he returned, hours later, Gilbert was still sitting there against the wall, and Toris found that he still couldn't do it.

Wished he woulda run.

Gilbert looked up that time, when Toris came in, and Toris could see right off in his red eyes that he'd been crying. Looked a little stunned that Toris had actually come back. In some way, Toris thought that maybe he looked relieved. That didn't make any sense. Toris should have been the last person Gilbert ever wanted to see.

And again, Toris could only stand there and think about what he was going to do. What should he do? Send Gilbert on his way? Tell him to run? Tell him which way to go? Try to get him moving? Give him a head-start? Wasn't even sure that Gilbert could have stood up then if he had tried to, and if so, then he couldn't have gotten far by myself, not as dumb and demoralized as he was. Even Toris' best head-start would have given Gilbert two days at the very most. Gilbert wouldn't get anywhere like this, not on his own.

They stood at an impasse for a while, Gilbert too tired to get up off the floor and Toris too disheartened to really move, and they settled for staring at each other from time to time.

Toris was still thinking of what to do when Gilbert finally addressed him.

A low, guttural whisper.

"Is Ludwig alive?"

And for a while there, Toris had had half a mind to answer, 'No.'

Ludwig wasn't alive anymore, not the one that Gilbert sought, and that would have been the best answer. That would have ended this journey where it stood. It would have been the truth, in a way, because the Ludwig that stood by Ivan's side was not the same one Gilbert was looking for.

But when Toris looked over, the way Gilbert's face had crumpled made him stop short.

Absolute heartbreak, in human form. Gilbert's face. The way his eyes had squinted up and his brow had crinkled. The way his shoulders shook as he tried to prepare himself. The way his mouth was slightly open, chin low even as he looked up at Toris. The way his fingers were digging into the carpet for balance. The way he was barely breathing at all.

The way that he looked like he would have fallen over and _died_ from misery if Toris told him that his little brother had expired.

So, against his better judgment, Toris heard himself say, "Yeah."

Didn't know why he said it anymore than he knew why he was doing any of this now.

Gilbert's eyes shut completely, his head bowed, his lips pursed, his face collapsed completely, and when he raised up a wobbling hand to his forehead and inhaled sharply, Toris knew he was crying.

Toris couldn't say it. Seeing Gilbert like that, so ecstatic over the life of his little brother, he couldn't say it. He couldn't say, 'Ludwig doesn't love you anymore.'

Ivan had spent so many years calling him a coward, and Toris had never denied it, because he was. Too cowardly to ever say what he really wanted. Too cowardly to think for himself. Too cowardly to tell the truth. Too cowardly to tell Ludwig who he had killed. Too cowardly to put aside bitterness and spare Eduard.

Too cowardly now to tell Gilbert there was no hope.

Coward.

Long, uncomfortable minutes of Gilbert trying to stifle his sobs, too weak to bury his head under his arms and hide his face, and Toris looked around, rather helplessly. Didn't know what to do now. He had gone this far. He couldn't go _back_ , not from this. If he couldn't shoot Gilbert, if he couldn't do it, and if Gilbert couldn't go on alone, then what could he do? What? Was he supposed to guide Gilbert? Was he supposed to go back home, but this time in secrecy? Was he supposed to turn his back on Ivan, after all these years?

Well, actually, he already had. Not shooting Gilbert the second they had been in a room together had, essentially, been turning his back on Ivan. Seemed like he had suddenly gone too far to just turn around.

Eduard had been a step too far, too far. Couldn't stop seeing his face.

Gilbert finally looked up at him when he stopped choking and coughing, determined even through his bleary eyes and his misery, and asked, "Will you help me get there?"

From there, Toris felt like he had shifted permanently into that dream-like state.

Again, Toris said, serenely, "Yeah."

His voice was calm; his mind was anything but.

Gilbert started crying yet again, and ducked his chin down into his collar.

Toris looked down at him, and asked, as Gilbert shook, "Why don't you just go home, huh? Why did you come all this way? I don't understand. You were there. You got there. You were where you wanted to be. Why did you cross the wall again? Why? He's not even your brother."

Wanted to understand that, he really did. Had Gilbert really done all this, risked all this, come so far for Ludwig? Why? Those men, brothers in name only, shared no blood. Gilbert and Ludwig had no ties, none at all, and so he couldn't really understand why Gilbert was putting so much into this.

Gilbert stared at his feet for a while, reached up to wipe at his nose, gathering his thoughts, and then he said, quietly and rather simply, "'Cause he _loves_ me. No one else does."

Not anymore.

But Gilbert looked up at Toris, then, and for the second time Gilbert's face stopped him short.

That look.

As if the thought of Ludwig had lit something up inside of dull Gilbert. As if even the mention of Ludwig, the thought of him, the _notion_ of him, could bring something to life in Gilbert. His eyes had brightened, the darkness was replaced with something close to elation, the crease in his brow had softened, his chin was held up higher. His lips had twisted up into a crooked smile. Weakness and despair morphing into eagerness and adoration.

A glimpse, however briefly, of what proud Gilbert had once been.

When Gilbert spoke then, his voice had changed, too. No longer that pitiful wisp, but a stronger, deeper pitch, richer and more alive. Strong enough to make even unshakeable Toris shiver a bit when he said, "He loves me, for no good reason. I never did anything for him, not really, but he loves me anyway. I'll do anything for that, just because he loves me. I'll do anything for him."

And, well...

Toris looked down at Gilbert, looked down on that love there, and made up his mind.

Couldn't shoot him, and couldn't leave him here alone. Couldn't. He went on then, because, in a way, Gilbert's love for Ludwig was _beautiful_. Something he hadn't ever seen. Even though it wouldn't end the way Gilbert wanted, even if that love had died on the other side, even if it would kill Gilbert in the end, Toris couldn't seem to turn around then. Couldn't take his eyes off of that man, off of that look.

Fascinated.

No one had ever come for _him_ , no one had ever wanted him like that, so in a way he might have been trying to experience it a little through Gilbert. No one had ever loved him like Gilbert loved Ludwig. No one had ever been so enamored with him that his name alone could have brought out an expression like that.

Gilbert _loved_ Ludwig, and so Toris helped him, because it was easy to look at Gilbert and feel a little of it, just because it emanated from Gilbert so _strongly_. He could feel it, just by being in the same room with Gilbert. Hadn't ever felt anything like it, either, not in Ivan's world, and so Toris looked around, braced his feet and shoulders, and settled everything once and for all.

He wouldn't go back to that old routine.

Eduard was dead, and Gilbert loved Ludwig.

Anyway, Ivan was a breath away from shooting him. May as well play his hand out here and see how far he got. Go down with a fight. Torment Ivan a little, as Ivan tormented him, before he died. If he was gonna die, then so be it, but he at least wanted to get a shot in before he went down. At least then Ivan would remember him.

With those thoughts in his head, with those men still nearby, Toris felt the issue suddenly pressing, and said, "Get up. Time to go."

Even though there was nothing left to draw upon, somehow Gilbert stood up, because he loved Ludwig. That was beautiful. It was just a shame that Ludwig had stood up for Ivan.

Still, Gilbert carried on.

Took a step, and then another, and was somehow walking, unsteadily and clumsily but walking all the same, and followed Toris blindly. Didn't question him, didn't seem suspicious, didn't seem aloof. Followed Toris out the door, followed him down the street, and didn't look over his shoulder. Followed, because Gilbert wanted Ludwig so _badly_ that he was willing to do anything, willing to trust anyone, willing to go along with whomever may have offered.

As if Gilbert were just so desperate that he would have mindlessly attached himself to anyone who extended a hand. One of Ivan's guys coulda come up then, gun drawn, and teasingly said, 'Let's go,' and dumb Gilbert would have run up and tried to hug him.

Toris was fascinated, in every way, by that love. By that dedication. By this selfish, egotistical, proud, arrogant man, who had cast all of that aside just to save someone who had once loved him.

Felt more surreal than ever when he found a guy on the river, did a little sweet-talking, and boarded his boat with Gilbert. Going across the river. Behind them, Ivan's guys continued scouring the city, quite oblivious.

The whole while, Gilbert just stared at Toris as if he had fallen out of the sky, and Toris felt himself shifting from time to time, because he wasn't used to someone looking at him like that. Was used to people being terrified of him. Most people that stood before him hadn't ever come out of it that well, and yet here Gilbert was, staring at him as if Toris had just saved Gilbert from drowning.

Not used to being looked at as a savior, because he usually wasn't. So long, doing everything Ivan told him to.

Walking with Gilbert on the other side of the river was even stranger. Gilbert didn't turn to him once and ask, 'Where are we going?' Just trusted that Toris was taking him the right way. Somehow, that made his chest hurt.

They went into the outskirts of the city, Toris bribed a guy for his car, and they were on their way.

How _strange_!

He couldn't even believe anything going on around him. Absolutely, fantastically surreal.

As they drove along, though, Gilbert finally turned to him, and seemed a little bolstered by his presence. Toris being there must have been a great boost to his confidence, because he suddenly said, "When we stop, will you call him?"

At first, Toris thought Gilbert meant Ludwig.

But when he turned, he could see that strange look of intensity on Gilbert's face as he added, "Call him, and tell him I'm coming. I want him to know I'm coming. I want him to know that he can't stop me."

And then he realized that Gilbert wanted Toris to call Ivan, that Gilbert wanted Ivan to know that Gilbert was coming, despite everything Ivan had tossed out. That Gilbert wanted Ivan to squirm.

Toris didn't say a word then, and stared straight ahead at the road. Wanted to say, 'Are you stupid?' but didn't have the heart. Telling Ivan would lose them their advantage, but, in a way, he could understand Gilbert's sentiment.

So Toris drove along, and thought about it. To distract Gilbert, in the meanwhile, he asked, "How long's it been since you've eaten?"

Gilbert shifted, irritated that Toris was changing the subject, but was no doubt hungry, so he just shrugged a shoulder. Bought Toris a little time, anyway, to think about it, as he stopped to find Gilbert something to eat.

Lesosibirsk was a full day of driving behind him when he finally did what Gilbert wanted, and called Ivan.

Wondered if Ivan's guys had realized by then that Toris had gone missing.

In a way, even though he knew it was stupid, he could agree in a sense with Gilbert; wanted Ivan to feel that unease, that betrayal. Wanted Ivan to sit there at night and not be able to sleep. Wanted Ivan to know that Toris could still get one over on him, when he had a mind to. That Ivan, after all, had taught Toris everything he knew. That Toris had been a good student.

Bitterness.

He stopped the car when he saw a payphone in a small town, inhaled, and stepped out. Felt jittery and clammy. Gilbert was hot on his heels, looking alert despite it all.

Picking up that phone, though, Toris had almost choked. Had almost lost his nerve, as he punched in the numbers.

This place had been home for so long. That house had been his, too, all along.

" _Allo_."

Ivan's voice. That was something he had gotten used to. Something he feared and loved at the same time. Ivan had been his family.

Took him a long time to gather the courage to say, "It's me."

Ivan's voice became high-pitched. Eager.

Oh, Ivan. Didn't know.

_"Toris! Tell me."_

Well. Guess those men hadn't noticed his absence yet, still looking around Lesosibirsk. That was a relief, if only a slight one. So, Toris was keen to drag in out, in anxiety rather than boldness, and said, "Natalia's dead."

Ivan scoffed, curtly, and grunted, _"That would be good news if that were what I was asking you."_

So impatient, as always.

A quick glance back at bristling Gilbert, and then, feeling his heart palpitating so quickly that he knew he was on the verge of either vomiting or fainting, he said, weakly, "I got him."

A horrible silence.

'I got him.' Had, alright, just not in the way he or Ivan had expected. Not in the way he had meant to.

Oh. He had only ever wanted Ivan to be proud of him.

And then a laugh.

Ivan's laugh, high-pitched and a bit breathless, and Toris was pretty sure, as the nausea disappeared as quickly as it had come, that what he felt then was close to elation. Joy.

The sound of Ivan's voice, when he said, _"You don't say! I'll be damned! Didn't think you'd be able to do it. See? You see how easy that was to find 'em? You should have told me sooner. Ah—hell. It's done. I was startin' to get a little irritable with you, I admit, but... Ha. Good damn job, Toris. Good job. It's over."_

Toris' racing heart skipped a beat. His mouth dropped open as he exhaled, and he couldn't seem to inhale again. As if everything had stood still the moment those words had left Ivan's lips.

Good job.

Oh. _God_. Had he finally made Ivan proud? Absolute breathlessness. Everything he had ever wanted to hear. Everything he had ever wanted.

Ivan was god.

Good job. He'd wanted to hear that, his entire life. Had just wanted Ivan to respect him.

And for a sudden, dazed moment, as that indescribable euphoria took over him, the thought crossed his mind to pull out his gun, whirl around, and shoot Gilbert in the chest right there, and then he could go back home and have Ivan say it again to his face. 'Good job.' To hear Ivan _say_ it. Felt so fuckin' good, to hear him say it, to know that he had done something for once that maybe even Ludwig couldn't have, to be able to make Ivan proud. Ivan would never forget, not ever, and would always remember Toris' accomplishment.

Ivan would be proud of him. Ivan would love him for it. He could get a new uniform—

A hand on his arm.

He looked over, dazedly, to where Gilbert was staring at him with something close to impatience. "Well? Did you tell him yet? What are you waiting for? Tell him. Tell him I'm fuckin' coming. You tell him that I'm coming to get mine."

Toris looked down, and realized that his hand had crept down to his gun. His fingertips brushed the steel.

Cold.

Took him a long time to bring his hand back up, and it almost felt like a struggle to do so, as the urge to shoot Gilbert and earn Ivan's love was alarmingly potent. Felt like more a chore, suddenly, this random change of allegiance he had made. Probably better to shoot Gilbert and just go back home. He didn't really wanna leave Siberia, anyway.

Home.

Gilbert glanced down, then, saw Toris' hand still hovering above his gun, and it was that soft, sharp intake of breath, that sudden glint of fear in Gilbert's eyes, that look of uncertainty and doubt and terror, that finally yanked Toris out of his stupor. That flash of hopelessness that had crossed Gilbert's face.

Oh, he had almost done it. He had almost _shot_ Gilbert.

Almost.

Would have been better, too, would have been easier, but all the same Toris finally lifted his hand back up to the booth, and Gilbert might have swallowed. Looked a little yellow there, as he watched Toris with an attentive gaze. Toris raised that hand up to his forehead, then, to keep it away from his gun, because he really, _really_ wanted to shoot Gilbert, did he ever, and it was better to keep his hand engaged.

Good job.

His head was already hurting. Gilbert was going to be the end of him.

Ivan was calling his name, and Gilbert was staring at him.

Gilbert was waiting. Ivan was waiting.

Fuckers.

"Tell him!" Gilbert beseeched, in more of a moan, at the same moment that Ivan called, _"Toris?"_

His chest hurt, too. He just wanted Ivan to be proud of him. Was that so much to ask? Gilbert had gotten in the way.

It was the hardest thing Toris had ever done, to put that phone back up to his ear, and say, "I'm here."

He clenched his fingers in his hair, then, just to be absolutely certain they stayed put.

Ivan's voice had gotten impatient.

_"Where are you?"_

"In Lesosibirsk."

Well—Ivan's men were. He wasn't, not anymore, but Ivan didn't know that yet.

A hiss from Ivan, as he said, " _So close! He got so close! How'd that stupid son of a bitch even get that far? Damn. You got him just in time."_

No way around it now.

Decision time; shoot Gilbert, or help him.

To follow Ivan as he always had or choose the fork in the road.

Once upon a time, that would have been an easy decision. He would have pulled out the gun the second that Gilbert had put his hands in the air, and would have shot him right there without so much as a word. He would have picked up the phone and proudly said to Ivan, 'I did it. I killed the son of a bitch. I told you I could do it.'

And even now, that was what he really _wanted_ to do. He wanted to shoot Gilbert, and get back home, and get a new goddamn uniform. Wanted to be the one to sneer at Ludwig.

Ludwig.

Lyudovik.

Wanted to, but Ludwig had shaken him up so much. Whatever Ludwig was now. Scared the hell out of him. Ludwig was so dangerous all of a sudden. So unsteady. Felt like leaving Ivan with a match and a stick of dynamite and expecting him not to light it up. Ludwig would surpass Ivan. Become something worse, somehow. Ludwig might have been created by Ivan, but it was starting to feel like Ivan had gotten in over his head. As if, soon, even Ivan wouldn't be able to control this Ludwig he had made.

And that _scared_ him, so, after the most titanic struggle he'd ever had to shove through in his entire life, Toris somehow finally did it.

He did it.

Gripping the phone so hard that the plastic creaked, Toris said, numbly, "Close, alright. I got him, though. I got... He's right here. He's standing right here."

The silence then was unbearable.

He could hear those wheels grinding in Ivan's head, even so far away. That silence. Ivan didn't say a word. Not a word.

And then, suddenly, out of nowhere, it felt as if Toris had been hit by a car for the way he felt. All of that uncertainty was replaced with anger. All of the terror was replaced with loathing. All of that confusion was replaced with abhorrence. Hate. It surged up from under the terror and made his chest burn, made his head hurt so bad that his vision almost blurred.

Hate.

He _hated_ Ivan, hated him _so_ much, even if somehow he loved him, and oh, god, he was far enough away now, had gone too far now, had done too much now to ever go back, so may as well fuckin' say it. Just say it.

Could see it in his head, all the time. Ivan, coddling Ludwig. Ivan, making Ludwig a colonel that first day without a second thought. Ivan, always putting Toris last, even as Toris had put Ivan before all else. Ivan, never once saying, 'thank you.' Ivan, ignoring everything he had ever done in favor of _stupid_ Ludwig.

Let's see who Ivan was suddenly thinking about now.

Toris' voice was lower and rougher than he had ever heard it when he pressed the phone against his lips and said, "He's still coming. Guess I'll help him get there. Hope you got another colonel uniform in there somewhere, because I'm gonna be taking it. _I_ shoulda been a fuckin' general by now."

Silence. Absolute, crushing silence. Ivan couldn't even talk.

But Toris could, and the last thing he ever said to Ivan was a thick, trembling, furious, terrified, "I hate you, I _hate_ you!"

Hadn't ever felt so many damn emotions fighting it out in his chest as he did then, and he suddenly slammed the phone into the side of the booth, just because he was so angry, so scared. Everything.

The hardest thing he had ever had to say. The most satisfying. The most painful. The most terrifying. The most calming.

Hated Ivan, but god, the second those words had left his lips, the second that string had been cut, the second he had severed that bond with Ivan, he had felt regret. Hurt. Remorse. Sadness. Longing.

Pain.

Home. So long with them. His family. Ivan had been as much a part of his life these years as anything, and Toris almost couldn't even imagine him just not _being_ there anymore. Waking up tomorrow and not having Ivan in sight. Not having that house to go to. Not having Siberia beneath his feet. Being no one again. Losing all power he had ever had. Losing his title, his uniform, his control, his men, his sense of security, his sense of authority.

Losing his identity.

Losing _Ivan_.

When he set that phone back down, Toris turned around and stared at the car, hand over his mouth, and suddenly wanted to fall to his knees and cry like he had never cried in his life. If Gilbert hadn't been there, he would have, right there in the middle of the street. Felt faint, all the same. _Devastated_.

Ivan.

Hadn't known it would _hurt_ that much.

In some way, saying goodbye to Ivan, letting that man go, was the most heartbreaking thing Toris had ever done.

And that was the sad story of his life.

* * *

'It takes a brave man to be a coward in the Red Army.'

Ludwig remembered having thought that once.

Yeah, Stalin had gotten that one right, sure had, but it took an even braver man to be a coward in Ivan's household. Took a _stupid_ man to cross Ivan. Ludwig didn't know what Toris had done, what he could have possibly done, but he had done _it_ , alright, whatever _it_ may have been, and Ivan was furious.

Livid.

Ivan was so mad that Ludwig was surprised he hadn't spontaneously combusted.

Hard to shake that scene from his mind; Ivan, picking up the phone and actually smiling for a second, at god only knew what, and then that smile dropping like a fly a minute later. A long silence. Ivan's fists clenching. A pen snapping. Ivan suddenly leaping upright and bashing the phone into the desk, over and over again until the plastic shattered into pieces. And then Ivan had just picked up the whole damn unit and threw it as hard as he could against the wall.

That poor office phone. Couldn't catch a break.

Ivan had whirled around, right after murdering the phone, and had slapped Ludwig across the face with the back of his hand. A sting, but nothing too terrible, and Ludwig hadn't even flinched when Ivan turned his fist over to the wall instead.

Ludwig knew, then, somehow, that it had been Toris on the phone. Seemed that only dumb Toris could ever make Ivan angry enough to lash out at _him_.

The desk got it right after the wall, flipped right over, the fallen lamp was crushed under Ivan's boot, and by the time Ivan's rampage was over, the office was in utter ruin and Ivan's hand was bleeding.

Ludwig just stood there the whole time, brow high and smiling a bit breathlessly, cheek red, and watched Ivan go at it. Ha. Cute, to see Ivan pitching such a fit.

When there was nothing in the office left to break, when Ivan finally stopped smashing things, he turned around, grabbed Ludwig by the arms, and slammed him back none too gently into the wall.

The pain was dulled by the absolute elation of Ivan being near. Nothing Ivan did could really scare him anymore, it seemed. Every day, things that used to terrify him seemed suddenly non-threatening.

Ivan slammed him back into the wall again, then one more time, leaned down, and forced Ludwig's gaze with nothing short of fury.

"Ludwig, you _listen_ to me," Ivan hissed in his ear, and Ludwig stiffened in complete attention, "If you ever see Toris again, and I'm not around, you shoot him. Shoot him. Shoot him. Do you hear me? Shoot him. Don't talk to him, just _shoot_ him."

Ivan's fingers dug painfully into his arms.

Toris?

Ludwig hadn't even _thought_ much about Toris lately, let alone felt incentive to shoot him. Barely even noticed when Toris was in the room.

To shoot Toris? Sure. Why not?

If Ivan said so, he could shoot Toris. Couldn't say he wanted to. It wouldn't please him. Wouldn't give him any satisfaction. Nothing he would enjoy, exactly. Just another boring task. But he'd do it, if that was what Ivan wanted. If it made Ivan happy, then he'd do it.

Toris had known all along not to get on Ivan's bad side. His own fault.

By now, Ivan's fingers were so deep in his arms that they were already leaving bruises, but Ivan kissed him quite possessively right after, so it was easily forgotten, and so was the recipient of Ivan's wrath. Didn't take too long for Toris to disappear completely from his mind. Toris was great and all, in the way a dog was great, but Toris being gone was almost exactly as when Toris had been there.

Ludwig just didn't notice much. Out of sight, out of mind.

As long as Toris never came back, then there was no problem. Couldn't shoot what wasn't there. Where had he gone off to, anyway? What was he doing? Toris had just up and left without a word, after that day.

Ah—who cared?

As it stood, Ludwig found that he had started valuing the cat more than he did Toris. All Toris had ever done was get him into trouble, it seemed. Better, now that he was gone. Felt as if he had more control, more authority. When Toris was gone, Ludwig felt more powerful, because Ivan had to rely on _him_. Toris being gone was hardly a concern.

He dragged fuming Ivan up to the bedroom shortly after, and quickly forgot that Toris had ever existed at all.

In the end, Ludwig couldn't even manage an interest. When Ivan had said Toris' name, in fact, Ludwig had very nearly thought, 'Toris who?'

The dog had wandered off.

Replaceable.


	45. Part 1 - Something Long Forgotten

**Chapter 45**

**Part 1**

**Something Long Forgotten**

Strange.

Everything around him those next few days felt so _strange_.

Being with Gilbert.

Being with the man he had come out here to kill, and was now somehow sitting beside. Funny how things happened, sometimes, Toris supposed. Couldn't ever really have said how he found himself here. Felt even stranger when he thought about how Siberia must have been smoldering under Ivan's wrath.

That was funny, too, in a way. Hoped it had hurt.

Hoped Ivan was looking back on every decision he had ever made and was wondering why he hadn't taken better care of Toris, when Toris had learned so much that it should have been obvious that he was the greatest threat to Ivan. Ivan had thought so lowly of him that he hadn't ever seemed to consider that it was only Toris who could have really ever undone him. Ivan had taught Toris everything he knew, but had felt Toris so pitiful that he hadn't even stopped to think that Toris could have very easily turned that knowledge against him. In the entire world, of billions of people, of so many 'brave' men, it was Toris that Ivan should have been leery of the whole time.

Hoped he was squirming, alright.

...oh, but, _oh_ man, sure did miss him.

Missed him. Had spent so long wanting nothing more than Ivan to be proud of him. So long loving that man. Missed him _so_ much, now that he couldn't _see_ him anymore. Had never missed anything the way he missed Ivan. Like someone had stabbed him in the chest for the way he felt.

For it all, though, for Toris' wandering mind, Gilbert seemed hardly bothered.

Just looked as dazed and tired as always, even though he had perked up a little now that Toris was beside of him and now that he had eaten. Must have felt so much better, after all of that. Looked a bit less gaunt, anyway, even after only five days.

Ivan's guys must have talked to Ivan by now, and no doubt were shifting their focus from hunting Gilbert to hunting Toris. Ah. Let 'em look. Toris was smarter than they were, and was hardly concerned. Anyway, if they started getting too close, then he could always call up some of his guys to get in the way. Ivan didn't tell Toris everything, but that was a two-way street, and Toris had his own tricks here and there.

Didn't care about anything behind him. Was just worried about what lay in wait.

Ludwig.

They were staying in this nameless little town, and Toris just stared out of the window at the trees. A quiet little house. Cozy. Gilbert might not have liked it too much, but Toris considered it a great change from those shitty motels. Anyway, better to just pay kind people to let them crash. Too risky to stay in public areas. Felt like a kid again, almost, staying in someone's house like this. Sleeping over, in a way. Pleasant. Would have been, anyway, if he weren't fretting about encountering Ludwig again.

Somehow, it was almost more frightening in his mind to see Ludwig than it was Ivan. How sad. Wished Gilbert would figure it out before they got too close.

Hardly.

Anyway, all Gilbert ever did was sleep.

Gilbert slept _all_ of the time, when they weren't moving, no doubt catching up on rest from his traumatic ordeal. Still so shocked from Eduard and Natalia that maybe sleeping was easier for him, so he didn't have to think too much. Slept so _hard_ though, didn't move at all, didn't even twitch, barely breathed, and sometimes Toris wondered if Gilbert would just end up dying in his sleep. Woulda been merciful, really.

The sun was getting lower, as Toris stared on out of the window, and still Gilbert slept, burrowed under the blanket, and for a while there, Toris thought he'd finally just kicked the bucket. Hadn't moved a muscle in a while. Hadn't ever seen anyone sleep as hard as Gilbert did. It was a little worrying, honestly. Didn't seem very healthy.

Well. Best to check him, then.

Goddamn, though, what was he gonna do if Gilbert _died_ before they even got there? Where was he gonna go? West, obviously. Maybe he'd go to Berlin for a while. See where he wound up. Maybe he'd go to Greece. Hell, maybe he'd go to America, if only to piss Ivan off all the more. Had to go somewhere, somewhere distant enough to where it would be hard for Ivan's hand to fall upon him. Oh, Christ, but then there was _living_ afterwards. Good god, living without _Ivan_. How was he even gonna manage that? So used to having the world under his feet. So used to being surrounded by men who ruled countries. Fuckin' diamonds crunching under his feet every time he walked outside. Oh, god, how was he gonna survive? Why hadn't he stuffed his pockets full of diamonds before he had left? So many of the damn things layin' around out there, and he hadn't thought to take a single one. Ivan mighta owned the world, but diamonds did, too, he'd learned that quickly enough. Stupid! Oh, he was gonna haveta get a _job_ , a fuckin' _job_ , like _ordinary_ people, was gonna haveta _work_ , work, like those nobodies he had spent so many years looking down on. He'd considered himself above the world, gotten so used to owning people, it was terrifying to even think about being one of _them_ , one of them, a normal goddamn guy, a damn speck of dust again—

A pain in his hand.

He looked down, and realized he had punched the wall in his frustration. Blood, rising up from his scraped knuckle.

Damn. What had he been doing?

Oh, right, right, checking on Gilbert. Right.

God, couldn't stand thinking about it. Missed Ivan so much, missed that identity. Didn't wanna be a normal guy. Just wanted to carry on without ever having to lift a hand for anything. Wanted to keep on stomping on people. Wanted to have everything without having to give effort for it.

Dammit, Gilbert.

...better not be dead yet. Toris would have liked to avoid the inevitable for a while longer. Wanted to drag his feet in Siberia as he had dragged them behind Gilbert. Leaving home. Didn't wanna go.

Gilbert had cost him everything.

Because of it, Gilbert was really all he had at the moment. How pitiful. And Gilbert wasn't even worth it. He really wasn't.

Too late, and maybe it was better to just focus on Gilbert for now and try not to envision himself _working_ somewhere in some other country. Working. Ah. Maybe, before Gilbert realized that Ludwig was gone, maybe he could slip in somewhere and grab a handful of diamonds. Had to have been some still in that shuttered KGB office, surely, if he couldn't get inside the house. Could swing by the mine and see what he could scrounge up. Ore, if nothing else.

If he didn't get _shot_ first.

Ugh.

He slunk forward, and reached out a hand to put it on Gilbert's head. Didn't even know why he slunk, either, because Gilbert slept like a rock. A fuckin' bomb couldn't have woken than man up.

A glint, in the lowering sunlight.

Pretty hair, what little of it could be seen under the tips, blond so pale that it was nearly silver, although 'pretty' wasn't exactly a word that was easily attributed to this unkempt, gruff, snarled human being before him. Maybe, in some dark, rough way, Gilbert was handsome, but certainly not pretty. Handsome worked, he guessed. Well. Ludwig was handsome. Ivan was handsome. Maybe rugged was a better word for Gilbert.

A stir. Gilbert's heavy eyes cracked open then, and he peered upward through pale lashes.

Oh. Not dead yet, apparently. Good.

Pretty eyes, too, but most people had pretty eyes. Still, though, to give credit where credit was due, not too many people had eyes like Gilbert's. That odd red pigment. Had never in his life met an albino. Absolutely fascinating, those eyes.

"What're ya doin'?"

Toris straightened back up, and said, honestly, "Checkin' to see if you were still alive."

"Oh."

A long, silent stare. Thought that Gilbert would go back to sleep, but he didn't, and, after a few moments of squirming and inhaling, Gilbert finally flipped over onto his back and sat himself up at the waist. A long, bleary look around, as Gilbert came back to consciousness, and when his eyes fell on Toris, he gave a weak smile.

"Hey."

Toris inclined his head.

"Hey."

With that, Gilbert fell silent, and seemed to be trying to remember where he was.

Toris asked, absently, "You hungry?"

Always was now that he wasn't crying every five minutes, it seemed, and, sure enough, Gilbert nodded. Dutifully, Toris went to fetch food. When he came back, though, and set it down beside the bed, Gilbert only seemed to be picking at it halfheartedly.

Preoccupied with something else. Didn't take that much longer to find out.

The sun had set.

A while later, Gilbert turned to him, still messy with sleep, and said, "I can't really believe you're here with me. I was so sure I was gonna be alone. I thought I was gonna be alone. I didn't know where to go. I can't believe you didn't shoot me."

"Yeah," Toris grumbled, as he plopped down onto his back on the other bed, "Neither can I."

Gilbert cast him a glance, and opened his mouth.

What Gilbert asked him, then, took Toris completely off guard.

"How did _you_ get here, huh? I asked Eduard, but he never talked about it." A look of regret. "So, how did you get here? Have you always been here? Weren't you..." A shift of discomfort. "Weren't you two friends?"

Toris sat stark still, and even though he must have looked quite stoic, his stomach hurt.

Eduard.

Friends? Yeah, once, just for a little while. Toris wasn't really the best friend to have, though, considering where Eduard was now. Toris had never been a good friend. His track record with them was a little...red.

Gilbert fell a little silent, and ducked his chin down.

"You don't have to tell me, I guess. I was just... I just wanted to know."

Toris stared at him, more intensely than he probably meant to, and finally asked, "Why?"

Why would Gilbert even care?

At that, Gilbert shrugged, looking timid suddenly, and grumbled, "I dunno. I just... Eduard was helpin' me out, and now you're helpin' me, and I just... I guess I just want to know a little about you guys." An awkward shift. "I just wanna know what happened out here. Ludwig's here now. I just wanna know what's going _on_ out here. I don't understand anything, I really don't, I don't get it, I don't get what's going on, and I just— I just wanna understand a little, I guess."

Understand? Gilbert would never understand, because, hell, even Toris didn't really understand. It was what it was, and there wasn't a great reason behind it. Things had just happened the way they had, and that was all. Didn't get why Gilbert wanted to know.

Then Gilbert had suddenly looked up at Toris through his lashes, and asked, tentatively, "Do you even _remember_?"

Remember?

"Yeah," Toris said, without thought. "Yeah, I remember."

Sometimes. Some days he could remember everything, clear as water, and then some days he couldn't remember anything.

He could remember now, though.

Gilbert was staring away at him.

Maybe, even when he couldn't remember, he hadn't truly forgotten. People never truly forgot anything, did they? Everything was seared away in the brain, every single act, every word, every face, every feeling; it was just that sometimes they couldn't pull it up. Not forgotten.

He would never forget _that_. Never could.

He could still smell the fuckin' gunpowder.

* * *

Gunpowder.

All he ever smelled these days.

Couldn't ever really say how he had wound up _here_ , with these guys.

A long way. A long road.

Toris hadn't ever been anything special.

Hadn't ever even left his village in his entire life, not once. Hadn't ever seen the outside world. Knew only this little place. The only people he knew were his parents and a couple of neighbors. So many people in the world, and he could count the ones he was acquainted with on his hands. Hadn't ever done anything worth writing home about. Spent all of his damn time herding sheep, and trying to learn things. Not much else to do. He had only ever been good at sheep and languages, so he usually found himself with some book in hand as the sheep grazed.

Toris was as boring as they came, and always had been. A nobody. Nothing. His parents had told him all the time that he was handsome and charming and sweet, but, hell. Toris could only take their words to heart so much. Didn't know anything else. Wanted to go out in the world and see what other people were like. Where would being handsome and charming and sweet get him in this village of thirty people?

Hard to feel worth anything, sitting in his room at night, staring at himself in the mirror and wondering if things would ever get more interesting.

Ha. Easy enough to be sweet, he supposed, when his only friends were gentle sheep. Sittin' there talkin' to lambs all day must have turned him into one. Could be moody sometimes, though. Some days were good, some days were bad. Maybe being isolated for so long had been making Toris a little crazy.

He was boring.

At least until one day, out of the blue, Toris had just turned to his parents and said, 'I'm leaving.'

Didn't know what the catalyst had been, except for holding that book in his hand, looking down at it suddenly, and thinking to himself, 'What good is this language gonna do me here?'

They had been shocked, to say the least. His mother had gasped aloud and grabbed his father's arm with a look of disbelief. His father had just looked like he'd been hit in the head with a rock. No surprise; Toris hadn't ever even talked to them about it, hadn't ever expressed a desire to get out. They'd hadn't ever known. But that was how he felt all the same, so, a few days after he turned eighteen, Toris packed up his things and left home for the first time.

Didn't know to where, and didn't know why; just felt stifled there. Out in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by sheep instead of people. Wanted to get out of there before he went crazy.

Who could ever amount to anything, surrounded by sheep?

Maybe he could find a translating job somewhere. Wouldn't mind doing that. He was good at that, at least. Spoke Lithuanian, because it was his native tongue, German fluently enough, because his mother did, and Russian completely fluently, because his father did. Learned a lot of Czech when he had time to study. Most of Polish, since it was so similar to Russian audibly.

He could do something with that.

Felt a little confident, but only a little.

He hitchhiked his way out of the boondocks, and he got on the bus in Vilnius, just grabbing the first one he saw, regardless of where it was going. He spent the ride clenching his bag to his chest, gawking out of the window and feeling more than a little alive. The first time on his own. Couldn't even believe it. Hadn't ever felt so free. So excited. Meeting people.

By god, _meeting_ people.

The first time in his life he had ever been around so many people. Absolutely intoxicating.

He kept on going, farther and farther, chatting with people on buses and trains, making friends, if only for a few hours. Having conversations. New sensations. Having people smile at him and talk to him. Laugh with him. If he was a lamb, then he was bleating his heart out.

Belarus, Ukraine, back to Belarus, and then somehow, before he knew it, he was in Poland.

He'd been away from home for a month. His hair had gotten longer; almost reached his shoulders now. He'd put on a good bit of weight, not having to spend his days climbing up the side of mountains to feed a flock. Bought new clothes. New shoes. Now, when he stood in front of the mirror, Toris could feel good about what he saw; a man, on his own, grown and independent. He wasn't the tallest guy around, but not the smallest, either. Looked older than he was now that he was dressed better. For once, he looked at himself and could say that maybe he himself thought he was handsome.

Felt like a normal guy.

How strange! Leaving home had been the best thing he had ever done for himself, it seemed.

He wandered ever farther. Girls smiled at him frequently, and he was always smiling, too.

Toris met _him_ in Warsaw.

Hadn't meant to; a complete and utter accident. He had been wandering around in Warsaw, taking in the city, and ran into a man and a woman who gave him directions. A few hours later, Toris bumped into them again, just by chance, and they had all been so surprised that somehow they had decided to go to a bar together.

His first time in a bar, too. Terrifying. Exhilarating.

He had been sitting with that couple, laughing over beers, and then someone had sat down beside of him. The first time that night. So damn excited to be around so many people, so excited to be in the world, Toris had squirmed around in his chair to face the newcomer, and had immediately thrust out his hand in greeting. The guy who had sat down next to him gawked over at him for a second, and then snorted, reaching over awkwardly to grab the offered hand.

"How ya doing? I'm Toris."

A smile.

And then, a rather suave voice said, "Feliks." A short look-over. "You sure are a friendly guy."

Was he? Maybe, but it was more likely that he was just so damn excited he didn't know what else to do. So jittery. So _happy_. So happy. His dumb, blinding smile must have been ridiculous, because the guy was suddenly laughing.

As he tittered away, Toris observed him.

Not a bad-lookin' guy, that was for sure. Handsome. Maybe a little older than Toris, but surely not by too much. Blond hair, a little longer than his but pulled back, pale, cheeks rather sharp and covered in light stubble, a bumped nose, and when he glanced over, Toris could see the shade of his eyes. Green. Hadn't ever met anyone with green eyes.

Toris would have been the first to admit that he didn't know anything about human interactions, not at all, but he was pretty sure that he was ogling the guy a little, and was pretty sure that he was being ogled in return. A certainly breathtaking sensation. The beer helped. So long in the middle of nowhere, and then being thrust into the world might have made everything more intense than it should have been.

The guy lifted up his brow, his smile turned into more of a leer, and then he lifted up his chin too, sending Toris a rather curious look.

A question.

"You from around here?"

Toris, face red from alcohol and still so jittery, felt himself leaning over when he spoke, and not just to make sure that he was heard over the ruckus.

"No. I'm from Lithuania! This is my first time here."

"Oh, yeah? You speak Polish really good. I thought you were from around here."

Pride.

His parents had been the only ones to ever compliment him in his entire life, so it was more than a little bit of a shock when the man looked him up and down from under a high brow, and said, amicably, "So! Toris. What's a handsome guy like you doin' in Warsaw, huh? Got family here or something?"

Handsome. Well. Maybe his parents hadn't been lying to him after all.

"Nah," Toris had said, feeling a little tipsy and maybe a bit red. "I'm alone. I was just going around, seein' what I could find. Sight-seeing, I guess. I was looking around for a translating job."

"Oh?"

A long, raking stare. Feliks was smiling again, wider than ever, and maybe it was the booze, but Toris was pretty sure that Feliks had gotten a little closer.

Feliks. Cute name.

Toris hadn't noticed when the couple had left. Just him and Feliks, suddenly, chattering away.

They talked all night, loud and laughing and sometimes Feliks would put a hand on his shoulder as he spoke, and when it was time for the bar to close its doors, a drunk Feliks had walked a drunker Toris outside, and when they had fallen up against the wall, watching the street blearily, suddenly Feliks had thrown an arm over Toris' shoulders.

"Say," came the heavy whisper in his ear, "You know, I got some friends— Well, hell, we could really use a translator. You speak Russian? I can speak a little, but damn if I can't read it. Why don't you come down and see if you like it?"

Drunk and too warm under Feliks' arm, Toris had asked, in a slur, "Yeah, I speak Russian. What kinda work d'ya do?"

Feliks had just smiled, and said, "You'll see! I'll take ya down in a few days to meet the guys. Say, you wanna stay with me 'til then? If ya ain't got nowhere else to go, that it."

He didn't, so Toris said, "Sure."

Shoulda been more leery of Feliks' offer of work, given that it required the knowledge of Russian and Feliks didn't exactly look like he had some kind of perfectly honest job.

Too late.

Didn't remember too much after that, until he woke up the next morning in Feliks' apartment, sprawled out face-down on the floor. Feliks was hanging halfway off the sofa, and when they spent the morning nursing their various degrees of hangover, Toris had realized that he felt pretty content. Liked Feliks. He did. Certainly a charming man, if not a bit vulgar.

An amazing sensation, anyway, sitting there on someone's floor for the first time ever, clothes wrinkled and hair sticking out everywhere, pale as a sheet and feeling subdued, as Feliks gawked down at him from above, hair loose and shirtless and just as pale.

Hadn't ever gotten drunk with somebody before.

They took up their conversations where alcohol had cut them short the night before, and suddenly it was late afternoon.

Toris had never smiled so much, and when he did, Feliks smiled, too. When _Feliks_ smiled, though, he went from handsome to downright gorgeous. Hadn't ever seen such a pretty, friendly, eager smile. Feliks loved life, that much was obvious. Could see it there, in his face. In his eyes. In that smile. Feliks loved the world in its entirety.

Those first days, when Toris stayed in Feliks' house, he had almost felt like he was home, the way Feliks came back in the afternoon and greeted him with a quick hug. Hadn't ever had a friend, not truly. Addictive, the sensation. Toris liked Feliks, so two days later when Feliks had reiterated the offer to go meet his friends for the hopes of a job, Toris had nodded his head. Sure. Why not? What could it hurt?

Yeah, famous last words.

As it turned out, Feliks had a hobby that he engaged in that would have made Toris go running for the hills if he had known about it beforehand. And that was no lie; had Feliks told him beforehand, he quite literally would have lifted his foot into the air, took a deep breath, and started running away as fast as his legs could take him.

Damn rebel.

The bastard was part of one of those damn student groups who liked to go rile up the Soviets when they didn't have anything better to do. The ones that opened up illegal books and read them aloud in the street whenever Red soldiers were passing. The ones that sabotaged train tracks and postal routes. The ones that caused trouble.

As much as anything else, Toris had never been in trouble in his life, either.

Good god, coulda _died_ , following Feliks down the street and then walking into that decrepit old building and seeing those guys, sitting there like nothing was out of the ordinary, piles of guns and books all over the place.

Pretty sure he lost three lives then.

The smell of gunpowder.

Knew he had gone pale as a ghost, and he must have looked petrified and ready to flee, because Feliks had thrown that arm over his shoulders again to keep him locked firmly in place. Before Toris could squirm away, Feliks had ruined it by calling out, "Hey, guys! Look what I got!"

And when all eyes were on him, Toris lost two more lives. He'd be dead soon, he knew it.

Hadn't ever been put on the spot like that, and when Feliks dragged him forward, Toris stumbled along and tried to utter weak greetings. Heard Feliks talk, but felt so far away.

"I think I found us a new translator. What do you think? Can we afford another guy?"

_New_? What the fuck had happened to the old one? Jesus Christ, someone get him the hell outta here—

Shoulda run for the hills right then and there.

"Sure can!"

"Say, he's a little young, isn't he?"

Feliks stood up straight, seemed hardly concerned, and then finally thought to ask, in Toris' ear, "Say, how old are you, anyway?"

"Eighteen."

His voice had been weak, trembling. So scared.

Feliks gave a bark of laughter, and called, "He's old enough!"

Toris would have said, 'Hypocrites!' had he been able to speak up. Those guys were only older than him by a few years. Feliks couldn't'a been more than twenty-four or so.

The guys smiled at him, and one of them asked, "So! What can you speak?"

Feliks had walked him forward, and, a while later, when Toris had stopped breathing through his mouth, it didn't seem so bad. Anyway, they needed a translator, and he needed a job, and well...

Wished he'd known sooner, because he had already gotten attached to Feliks, crazy as that sounded since he had only met the guy three damn days ago. He really had. Feliks was magnetic, and Toris had been drawn right off. Liked Feliks, and wanted to stay with him for a little longer.

Maybe Toris had attached too quickly, but he had been alone his entire life.

So, Toris had sat down with them, Feliks beside him the whole while, and talked to them a little. Feliks just smiled away in what was obviously happiness, and every so often, he returned that arm to Toris' shoulders. Couldn't seem to stop touching, and Toris didn't really complain too much. All in all, it really didn't seem too bad. They had just sat there and chattered, like young men did, and after a while the sharp smell of gunpowder had just blended in and Toris had forgotten about it.

Days passed, and Toris started settling into the scenery, if that were close to being an appropriate word. If not settling, then he was at least not petrified as much. Feliks and his beautiful smile made it easier to adjust, and so did the alcohol he was pretty adept at shoving down Toris' throat.

For that first month, all Toris did was translate newspapers and letters (and he didn't ask where the damn letters had come from or how they had gotten them because he was happier not knowing thank you very much), and sometimes he wrote things down for them in Russian. That was all. It wasn't bad. Gradually, though, afterwards, Feliks led him further and further.

So hard to say 'no' to that man, not when he looked at Toris as if Toris were suddenly the only thing in the room.

At home (home, he had started calling it, couldn't say exactly when), Feliks' friendly greeting hugs had started to last a little longer, and sometimes when he pulled away he would draw his hands up to Toris' shoulders and leave them there for a long second, and Toris loved it.

Feliks was beautiful.

The group started breaking him in, slowly but surely.

The first time Toris ever held a gun, he was pretty sure that he had been so pale that he might have gone a little yellow, no matter how nice Feliks' hand on his back may have felt. Damn gun! Had never held a gun. His father's rifles had always sat unused in the cabinet.

Couldn't ever have said how Feliks had talked him into _that_ , how Feliks had gotten him out into that field in the first place, how he had gotten him to put his eye down to that scope of that rifle and aim at those bottles sitting there on that log. Practice, Feliks had said. Was so strange, so scary, yeah, but...

When Feliks saw how uncertain he was, how nervous, he had come up behind Toris, reached around to grab his arms and show him how to hold them, how to hold the gun, and as he had done so, he had pressed his chest into Toris' back.

Dumbly, Toris had just let Feliks do whatever he wanted, following along blindly.

Warm.

"It's easy! Just aim."

Sure; easy.

Toris fired, for the first time, jumped pathetically, and had missed.

Feliks ducked his head forward suddenly, resting his chin on Toris' shoulder and pressing their cheeks together, Toris had started breathing a bit quickly, and Feliks had just leered at him.

"What? Worried or somethin'? You look so damn scared all the time. The hell you doin' out here, anyway?"

Toris glanced over at him, narrowed his eyes, and grumbled, " _You_ brought me out here, you jerk."

Feliks lifted up his chin, leering away, and snitted, "Oh, yeah! You didn't complain, though."

Well. That was true. Not because he hadn't been scared, exactly. Had just wanted to impress Feliks. Didn't know why. Just wanted to do something. Wanted to feel important, for once. This was as good a way as any, he supposed, and it was certainly bolstering, having someone paying attention to him like this.

So, he let Feliks put the rifle back up, aimed again, and fired. This time, he was closer. And it only took two more tries before he finally hit the first bottle, and after that, after he had found the motion, after he had learned where to aim and how to sight, he didn't miss anymore, and Feliks had let him go and let him do it on his own. Hit every single one.

That time, Feliks reached out, clapped his shoulder, and said, "Good job! You know, you're not too bad a shot. I've seen worse. I mean, you're not the _best_ , but not the worst."

Well. A half-assed compliment was better than none at all.

Feliks reached out then, brushing errant fingers through the tips of Toris' hair, and teased, "Better start pulling your hair back, though! Don't wanna miss just because you got a mop in your face. You'll get yourself hurt that way."

Felt like his fingers had been in Toris' hair far longer than was necessary to make a point, and maybe Feliks' smile had been a little slanted.

Adrenaline rush. No one had ever noticed him.

That night, when they were in Feliks' living room, when they were both tipsy, Feliks had reached out and put his arm over Toris' shoulder, and for the second time that day, he pressed their cheeks together. It might have been around then that Toris felt himself becoming a little enamored with Feliks. Just wasn't brave enough to tell him.

A month later, Toris somehow found himself going out with those guys whenever they left Warsaw. It was extremely clear to Toris by then how much Feliks _loved_ his men, adored them all, and maybe Toris joined them because he wanted to feel a part of that love. Wanted to have those friends. Wanted to have men that adored him and watched his back. So he stayed with them. Going here and there. Wasn't too bad at first, and, anyway, Toris tried very hard to stay out of trouble, reminding Feliks very frequently that he had come here to translate, and that was all.

Just translate.

Yeah, nice try. Each time, seemed like Feliks goaded Toris a little more, pushed him more, and Toris didn't know how he did it. Every time Feliks said 'go', Toris said 'no', and then went anyway.

Toris had started pulling his hair back, without really thinking about it.

Steadily it escalated, Toris' involvement, and three months into his arrangement with Feliks, Toris had become a full-fledged member of the group. Did everything they did, and went everywhere they went.

And sometimes, Toris liked it. Liked getting into trouble. Like causing mayhem. Liked the excitement and the adrenaline and the attention.

Once, somehow, Toris had found himself standing up on a fountain in Krakow as soldiers marched by, a book in hand, and reading passages from banned literature aloud, Feliks stuck at his side. Had never been so brazen in his life, had never looked for trouble, had never wanted to cause a ruckus, until Feliks had come along. Feliks had changed him. Wondered, sometimes, if it was for the better or worse. Probably shoulda thought more about _that_ before he had started reading.

He had been going at it for a good half-hour before the first sight of police officers within the rowdy crowd.

Jeering. People jumping up, fists in the air, shouting along with him. Electricity. Defiance. Hate for the Red occupation.

Toris had been absolutely immersed in the atmosphere.

"'—It's a good thing when a man is different than your image of him! It shows he isn't a 'type'. If he were—'"

Feliks kept on reaching out and grabbing his arm. Adrenaline. The police came ever closer. Feliks just sent them a wide smile as they crept up, hardly frightened, and it was Feliks' fearlessness that gave Toris the courage to stay up there and keep reading.

"—it would be the end of him as a man! But, if you can't place him in a category, it means that at least a part of him is what a human being ought to be! He has risen above himself, he has a grain of immortality!'"

Closer.

Hands, thrust into pockets.

And then, when the crowd was cheering ever louder and the police had come close enough to come into full detail, Feliks deemed it time to go; a firm yank on Toris' arm, and he took the hint.

Just like that, they leapt down, and took off as fast as their legs could carry them, hair flying behind them and breathless smiles on their faces. As usual, the crowd worked to their advantage, and they got away again, as they always had when doing these sorts of things. Their luck wouldn't last forever, but they felt as if it would. They felt ever bolder each time, and when Feliks was around, Toris felt invincible.

Sometimes, though, that boldness made them reckless.

When the others weren't looking, Feliks smiled at Toris so brightly and so adoringly that Toris felt the world spin. The way Feliks made him feel.

One day in February, Toris found himself holding a rifle, Feliks and his guys all around him, and they were on a desolate road outside of Lublin, crouched down in the ditch and waiting quietly. Toris didn't know what they were doing, had just been told to get ready to move out, until suddenly a vehicle had come down the road, and Feliks had whistled.

Before Toris even knew what was happening, he was trotting behind the group, and they had run up from the snow and surrounded the vehicle. Didn't take long for Toris to realize that it was a military vehicle. A postal carrier.

Aw, shit.

Too late to back out. The gun was in his hand and he was already a part of it. Couldn't just say, 'I don't want anything to do with _this_.' He was involved. He was a member of this group, and, to be fair, in the eyes of the Red Army, it was just as illegal to rob this mail carrier as it had been to read that book.

The vehicle lurched to a halt at the men in the road, and Toris felt rather dazed when the guys wrenched opened the doors and tossed the soldiers inside out onto the ground. Corralled quickly, Feliks' men were rather rough with the soldiers, all things considered, and they were forced at gunpoint onto their knees. They knelt there, hands in the air as Feliks kept them under his sights, and when Toris looked up, the guys were waving him over. Toris slunk to them, dumbly, feeling somehow as if the soldiers were watching him even though they were on their knees out in the ditch.

Hands pushing him forward.

"Alright, what do we have?"

Head pounding and rather dizzy, Toris just poked his head into the back of the vehicle, at the boxes and stacks of letters and correspondences. He took the nearest package into his hand, and read the address. Meant for a Soviet base in Hungary. With that, Toris nodded his head in a silent way of telling them that this was exactly what they were looking for.

"Alright, let's go."

A rustle, a movement, and Toris was being pushed inside the vehicle, and then suddenly he was a fuckin' criminal, more so than before, because they stole the damn truck.

Feliks followed behind in a car, after having left the poor soldiers in the middle of nowhere.

They whole time they drove, Toris was pretty sure his heart was about to give out. Had never been so happy to park and jump out of a car, that was for sure. He couldn't really have denied, though, that it had been an absolute rush.

Toris spent the rest of the night hunkered at the table, reading letters aloud. Most of them were droll; orders and numbers, plans. Some of them were important. Sometimes, every now and again, there was a letter from a soldier to his girl, private letters, and Toris was quick to cut those short, usually with a blush, and those letters he set aside in a pile and kept a good eye on them so that the others wouldn't grab them.

Didn't know why. Felt wrong, something personal like that.

When every article of post had been sifted through, the guys used the information to plot their movements and such, but Toris just sat at the table, quiet and halfheartedly sipping at the bottle of palinka he had scrounged up.

It was Feliks who finally looked up at moody Toris and asked, with a warm voice of adoration, "What's the matter _now_?"

As if Toris were a moody woman.

...kind of was, sometimes. Moody, that was.

Still, after a short glare, Toris just cast his gaze back down, and inclined his head to the pile of personal letters. Took Feliks a second to get it, and when he did, he started laughing.

Agitation.

Didn't see what was so funny about it. Those men had put their hearts into those letters, and it shouldn't have mattered what side they were on or what color their uniforms were or if they were Reds—they were just young men in love. Those letters should have made it to those women. That was only fair.

Feliks looked at him for a long time after he stopped laughing, with a crooked smile, and then he lifted up his head and said, firmly, "Ah. Hell. Mail the love letters, for god's sake. Don't wanna make any girls cry. We're not _that_ kind of men."

Toris might have smiled.

Feliks mailed the letters because Feliks thought that love was what made the world beautiful.

Toris thought that Feliks made the world beautiful.

Months passed.

Prague. Spring time.

Toris had become the unofficial second-in-command, because Feliks never left his side for a second, and the men had started treating him as such.

Feliks had started smiling at Toris in that wonderful way even when the others were around to see, as if he had given up trying to stifle it anymore. Toris was in the clouds. Absolutely in the clouds, and he didn't want to come down.

They had been in Prague for two weeks, joined up with another little group that wanted to become as bold as they were. Accommodations were tight; nobody slept alone anymore. Feliks, as the leader, put them where he wanted them, and Toris had hardly been surprised when Feliks had called him as roommate. Not surprised, but ecstatic all the same.

Prague was beautiful, it really was, one of the prettiest places he'd ever seen, but nothing in his eyes ever compared to Feliks.

Lately, it seemed, when they had been gathered together, making plans, Toris and Feliks had just sat there and stared at each other from across the way, chins in palms and up in space.

Soon after, enough must have been enough; Feliks called a meeting short one night, sent everyone home early, and when they were back in their room, it didn't take Toris too long to figure out what had been on his mind.

Hadn't even been in the room for a minute when Feliks had turned on him. Hands grabbed his collar, fingers tangled and clenched, and before Toris could even find his balance or be startled, he had been whirled around and slammed none too gently back into the wall. A chest against his own. Slowly, Feliks' fingers had untangled from his shirt and had gone to the sides of his neck. Thumbs on his jaw. A nose pressing into his.

A long, heavy hesitation, the astounding sound of Feliks' breathing, and then suddenly, for the first time in his life, Toris was being kissed, by this man he didn't really even know, not truly, and yet everything about it felt pretty beautiful then. Feliks had the uncanny ability to make him feel as if he were caught up in a whirlwind.

That had been the best night of his life, and in the morning, when he awoke, tangled up in Feliks, the world had seemed even brighter. Life seemed more colorful. Prague seemed more beautiful. Toris could have said, perhaps, that he had been in love.

What did he know? Dumb. Hadn't ever been in love before. What did he know about it? Wouldn't have known love from lust at that age, not as dumb as he had been. Didn't know anything about anything.

But what he felt for Feliks was far too strong to ignore, and so Toris became more reckless, because it made Feliks smile when he did bold things, and Toris would have done anything to make Feliks proud of him. Anything to make sure Feliks felt as strongly as he did.

Felt so different now, free from the confines of his boring life.

Feliks had rubbed off on him, in many ways, some more pleasant than others. Sure did curse more, after having met Feliks. His mother woulda slapped him, hearing how he was talking now. On the other hand, Toris felt happier, as well, because Feliks was always so _happy_ , happy with everything around him. It was infectious, Feliks' vivaciousness.

Toris was sure that he could never have gotten enough of that man.

The feeling must have been mutual; one night, when everyone had turned their meeting into an impromptu party, when drunken Feliks had grabbed drunken Toris by the hand and forced him to stand up and dance with him, Feliks had leaned in, lips pressed against Toris' ear, and had whispered to him. And, oh, had words ever made anyone so happy?

'I hope you stay with me forever.'

Hands gripped his own, for just a second, that wonderful smile bright in the dim light, and Toris had just smiled back. If Feliks wanted, then Toris absolutely would have stayed forever.

Forever.

Feliks was everything he had never known he wanted.

Curled up in bed, Feliks bumping their foreheads together over and over again, nuzzling and touching, was the happiest Toris had ever been. The most entrancing moments of his existence. Feliks reaching out to grab his chin and drag him in for a kiss. The sensation of fingers in his hair. The feel of Feliks' skin beneath his palms. Hands running down his shoulders and arms.

Love.

_Should_ have lasted forever, anyway, that wonderful feeling, but it didn't. Ended far too quickly.

April came, and they moved again.

Toris followed Feliks, wherever he went. Night, chasing helplessly after the sun.

A little town, a few hours outside of Krakow. Tiny little place. They had only come there to do what they always did. It was something they had done so many times. Stealing letters. Mail. Orders. Plans. They had done it so many times. They had been overconfident. Arrogant. Proud. They had done it dozens of times, and so it was easy enough, corralling the vehicle and forcing the driving soldiers out onto the ground. Same old. They always did that.

Something had just been different that time; the soldiers kneeling in the dirt didn't stop _smiling_ , even as their hands were in the air and the guns were pressed into their backs. As if they knew something no one else did.

No one had noticed. Why would they? No one was even paying attention to them, Toris least of all. Why pay attention to them? He was already plotting how he and Feliks were going to spend the rest of their lives together. Thinking about how he could make Feliks smile at him that night. Thinking about how it would feel when he finally gathered up the courage to say, 'I love you.' Maybe tonight. Maybe he could say it tonight. Sure! Why not? He could say it, if he tried. Feliks' smile already said it; why not voice it aloud? Feliks would really have smiled at that, if Toris finally said it.

Tonight. Couldn't _wait_ to get home.

They had done it before.

The soldiers were smiling. And when Toris rushed forward and opened up the back of the vehicle, confident and unconcerned, it was immediately obvious as to _why_.

He opened the doors.

And just like that, that beautiful world that he and Feliks had created came crashing down.

He opened the doors. No letters. No packages. No parcels. No boxes. The truck was empty, save for one thing :

A man.

The most instantly _frightening_ man that Toris had ever seen in his life. Like opening the doors to the black, endless void of space.

He sat cross-legged, resting up against the wall of the truck rather idly, a pistol held loosely within his hand and pressing into his thigh, and when he saw Toris, he broke into an awful, crooked smile, and said, gently, "Good afternoon."

A smooth, soft, crooning voice. Russian.

Pale lashes.

A rustle. Toris looked to the side, dumbly, and could see soldiers walking up out of the trees, rifles aimed. He turned to the left; more soldiers, coming from the brush. The soldiers that were kneeling were still smiling, and had already lowered their hands. And the man in the back of the truck was smiling too, and when Toris returned his wide eyes to that man, he had already started pulling himself up to his feet.

Toris recognized that olive uniform. That star. That embroidery.

The Red Army.

A trap. They'd fallen into a trap, for their own confidence.

All that Toris could think of to do then, his hands still gripping the doors of the vehicle and feeling cold despite the warm air, was to look the man in the eye and say, dumbly, "Oh shit."

Oh shit was right.

The loose pistol was suddenly aiming at his chest, pale eyes bored into his own, and Toris could only let his hands come slowly off the doors and into the air, and back up as the soldier leapt out with a sneer. A hand snatched out, and grabbed a fistful of his collar. It wasn't the hand in his shirt that made it suddenly so hard to breathe, though. The soldiers in the forest had come up and surrounded them.

A silent standoff.

Feliks, his rifle still pointed at those kneeling soldiers, had gone as pale as a sheet, and his always friendly eyes were wide; terrified. Had never seen confident Feliks look like that. Horror.

Toris was too damn petrified to even do anything, and just let that soldier grab him by the collar and drag him back over to the others.

Toris looked at the bar on the soldier's shoulder, and could see, beyond his terror, that the man was a _very_ high-ranking officer. Colonel General. Three stars on his bar. What the hell was a guy like _that_ doing out here? Good god, what had they gotten themselves into? They had become so reckless, so stupid, and had become such an annoyance to the Red Army that they were sending out the hotshots to take care of them. Sending out men who by all rights should have had better things to do. This man should have been sitting at a desk in Moscow, not walking in a field in Poland. Colonel General. Christ almighty.

Toris had never been so scared in his entire life. To be perfectly honest, he was truly surprised that he didn't faint or start crying. Would never understand how he hadn't fainted then.

Feliks looked absolutely stupefied. Dazed. But then he looked over, saw that superior officer dragging Toris back towards them rather roughly with the pistol pressed into his side, and Toris was startled when Feliks had suddenly aimed his rifle at the officer and said, if not weakly, "Let 'im go."

Stupid. There was no point. They had lost. They had no upper-hand. No advantage. Outnumbered and outgunned. And Feliks' brazen command had only seemed to attract more attention to the both of them in particular.

The Colonel General lifted up his head, looked around, and then released Toris' collar to reach up and remove his cap rather neatly. Even though he was free, Toris stood there, stupidly, stunned by that man, and could only stare at him. What a terrifying man. Couldn't put his finger on what made him so scary. Tall, broad, strong. A huge guy in stature already, but made so much more intimidating for the uniform. Glossy, neat hair. Curved sideburns. Strong jaw. Not so old, still a rather young man, strangely, for such a high rank. A somewhat crooked, prominent nose. By all rights he was a normal man, but those _eyes_...

The soldier tucked his cap under the arm that held the pistol, smoothing his hair back rather primly, and then he turned his eyes to Feliks. Toris had never seen eyes as frightening as those. His free hand went up in the air, a finger crooking, a silent signal, and he beckoned Feliks over.

A shiver from Toris.

Wasn't even scared of the rifle pointed at him, and Feliks didn't lower it as he crept slowly forward. Glances back and forth between Feliks and Toris, as much as they dared. When Feliks had come close enough to the man, he fell still, and it was the soldier who walked forward, until he was pressing himself into the barrel of Feliks' rifle, that sneering smile still on his face and absolutely and utterly calm.

From the very second that Toris had laid eyes upon that soldier, he had been terrified of him. Couldn't even move in his presence.

The soldier stared at Feliks, who had started cold-sweating, and he asked, simply, "Do you speak Russian?"

Feliks didn't answer, but probably didn't need to. Even if Feliks hadn't spoken Russian, it would have been quite possible for Feliks to understand a good bit of what he was saying anyway under the assumption that he was Polish.

But the way that that man was suddenly staring at Feliks...

Made Toris shudder. Couldn't stand it.

Finally, they had no choice but to surrender, no other choice in the middle of this army, and Feliks' men all lowered their guns. The kneeling soldiers stood up and went to the sides of their comrades. Only Feliks still held his rifle up, stubbornly, and somehow, the soldier staring him down almost seemed pleased with that.

Something was wrong with that man; Toris could see it. Could sense it. Terrifying. Feliks felt the same, Toris could see it in his eyes as he tried hard to match the gaze. Failed miserably at that, anyone would. Couldn't ever stare down a man like that.

The novelty of Feliks' defiance eventually wore off, however, and the soldier waved his hand in the air a bit languidly. In a second, the soldiers had taken aim at Feliks.

Heavy breathing. Toris could see Feliks' hands trembling.

For a minute there, Toris thought that Feliks was actually going to shoot the soldier, just to make a mark before he met whatever fate was before him. But he didn't, and after a long minute, Feliks inhaled, sharply, and lowered his rifle. The dull thud as it was tossed to the ground.

The soldier's smile became more of a leer, and then he had suddenly lifted his head, with such confidence, and said, "Take them down."

That soft voice didn't match any of this awfulness. That gentle, pretty voice.

Feliks' head snapped up as the Red soldiers started wrangling his men and forcing them down to the edge of the trees. Guns pointed at chests, and from that awful, pale, _horrified_ look on Feliks' face, it was quite obvious that he thought his men were being led to execution, and Toris found himself agreeing. It sure as hell looked like they were being aligned for slaughter. Their hands were shaking as they held them up.

Toris and Feliks were left above. Oh, god, oh, what could they do? Not much.

Two soldiers had remained behind, and held their rifles on Toris and Feliks as the Colonel General started to pace between them. It was obvious that his mind was whirring away, and Toris really didn't want to know with what. What did a man like that even think about?

Didn't take long to find out, as the soldier raised his hand up in the air, and said, "Aim."

Clicking below at the tree line, as the soldiers set their sights on the group. Feliks' men, and lately, in some way, they had been Toris', too. Friends. The only ones he had ever had. Those men.

Feliks was breathing through his mouth. Fists clenched. Feet bracing into the dirt. Looking around helplessly. Shoulders shaking and so pale, so pale. Had never seen him so _pale_ , so scared, and when the soldier looked straight at Feliks, making it very clear without words that he was about to give the order to fire, Toris heard Feliks whisper, thinly, "Wait! Wait. Stop."

The soldier stood idly still, hand still in the air, and his smile was rather wolfish by then.

"Yes?"

So calm. How was he so _calm_ , about to shoot those men as he was? How was he so tranquil? About to murder young men, and he looked as if he had just woken up after a wonderful dream.

Feliks, on the other hand, looked on the verge of passing out, and asked, in a mixture of Polish and Russian, "What do you want? Huh? What do you want? Stop. You can't just _shoot_ them."

Feliks _loved_ those men.

A look of interest, and the soldier was quick to lift his brow and his chin, the look of supreme arrogance, and he just said, in the softest and yet most terrifying voice Toris had ever heard, "Oh? Can't I?"

As if it were nothing.

A twitch of his hand; a warning.

Again, Feliks said, "Stop."

He did, for whatever reason, and turned his full attention to Feliks.

"Are you their leader?"

The word 'leader' had been droll at best, condescending at worst, and Feliks nodded his head.

The soldier held still for a second, scrutinizing Feliks with alarming interest, and then called, mercifully, "Hold!"

A look of relief from Feliks as he tried his best to stand straight and tall, but his effort seemed pitiful in the shadow of that terrifying Red, and Feliks may as well have been a kitten hissing at a tiger. Pointless. Feliks didn't possess a stance even close to anything that man could pull off.

All Toris could do was watch, because no one was speaking to him and he just didn't know what the hell to do. Frozen.

The soldier glanced over at Toris briefly, and said to Feliks, "Is this your second-in-command?"

Again, Feliks nodded.

A wry smile, as if the soldier were thinking to himself, 'Is that _all_ he is?'

Feliks' stupid break of composure earlier; the soldier was taking advantage of it, and taking advantage of Feliks' obvious love of his men.

And then, from there, from that second nod, everything went to hell.

"You seem to be in trouble," the soldier said, as he started circling Feliks in a frighteningly predatory manner. "I've been given orders to wipe you all out. You've been rather annoying as of late. But perhaps I could be persuaded otherwise. I'm not happy about coming all the way out here, if I'm honest. I have better things to do. I wasn't happy about being sent here. So. What can you offer me?"

A trap, another one, Toris _knew_ it, he could _feel_ it, knew that there was no offer that that man would have accepted that wouldn't have been a crushing one, but Feliks leapt on the opportunity all the same and cried, "Anything! What do you want? Anything, anything at all. What do you want? Let them go, and I'll give you anything. What do you want?"

A short, pointed silence, as the Colonel General came to a halt before Feliks, just a few inches in front of him, and looked him straight in the eye. Toris could sense the shadow looming.

That man.

And then the calm answer.

"You."

Toris felt the first stab of terror. Hurt. Anger. Everything.

Dizziness.

Feliks just stood there, confused, so confused, he opened his mouth and nothing came out, and then he sent Toris a horrible, helpless look, before turning back to the soldier and muttering, "I don't understand."

The soldier straightened up, put his arm behind his back, and smiled. Happy enough to clarify.

"You. I want _you_. The leader. You got them all into this, so you should be able to get them out, shouldn't you. I'll cut off the head, and throw the rest away, how about that? I'll send you to a gulag, and I'll let them go. You can save them, if you want. Just say the word. It's up to you. Easy, isn't it?"

The world went silent.

Toris was fairly certain that he was a breath away from dying. Nothing had ever shocked him like that. Nothing had ever made his chest hurt the way those words had. Nothing had ever made his stomach drop like that.

Feliks.

The soldier wanted Feliks. Wanted him to give up everything, give up life, to save his men. Toris couldn't fathom it. Had never heard anything more cruel in his entire life. There had never been a person that had loved life more, that loved being alive more. How could anyone ever ask a person like that to give it all up? Feliks had been the most beautiful thing Toris had ever seen. People like Feliks, happy people—the world needed more of them. How could anyone ever want to snuff that out?

Feliks adored the world.

At Feliks' horror, at his hesitation, at his immobility, the officer seemed to know he was in a good position, and upped the ante suddenly by pointing at Toris.

"Or, if you don't want to go, I can take him instead. Leader, second leader, all the same. What would you prefer? Which one of you will I take?"

A pang in Toris' chest, a literal burst of _pain_ , at how fast his heart was pounding. Numb, absolutely numb. Couldn't think. No air. No atmosphere.

Although the officer was putting them both on the line, his eyes were only on Feliks, and it was quite clear that he was expecting Feliks to leap upon the chance to be a hero. Waiting. Feliks just stood there. The Red had said it to spur Feliks on. He had said it to force Feliks' hand. He had said it so that Feliks would leap forward bravely and say, 'I'll go. Take me.'

But Feliks just _stood_ there, still as could be, and didn't utter a word.

Toris thought for a second that maybe Feliks had checked out of the building, had zoned out, had spaced, because even his horrified face had suddenly become strangely blank. Toris couldn't even breathe anymore. His chest was too tight. He could feel his hands trembling. His shoulders shook. Eyes wide under a low brow. Mouth open. Sweating. His palms were clammy.

Felt so strange, this panic, this terror, because it was such a beautiful day. Blue skies above. The trees were green, swaying in the wind. Flowers all around. Cool air. Pretty.

Feliks didn't speak.

Time seemed to drag. Couldn't be right, couldn't be happening now, not now; tonight Toris had planned on saying those words.

Feliks was still immobilized, and now the officer's brow had come down, and his coy smile faded as he again started to circle Feliks with silent steps. He looked almost angry by then. Exasperated. Seemed annoyed that Feliks hadn't answered immediately.

"What?" he said, so loudly that Feliks jumped and ripped his spaced gaze away from Toris, "Did that sound like a good idea to you? Huh? Did it? Do you want me to take _him_ instead? Huh? Tell me! Hurry up and make up your mind."

The soldier was angry. As if he had made some kind of mistake, and had lost patience.

"Hurry!"

Feliks opened his mouth, and lost his voice. A short, wide-eyed glance at Toris. Toris felt himself totter, felt his heart skip, because the look in Feliks eyes was so...

"Time's running out. Hurry up."

... _distant_. Far away. Like he was stuck in the mud. Like something in Feliks had been switched off and he was having trouble turning it back on.

Silence. No matter how hard he tried, no matter how many times he opened his mouth, Feliks just couldn't seem to speak. Couldn't find his voice. Feliks, who had always been enamored with the world. Feliks, who loved life. Maybe...

The soldier started drumming his fingers on his thigh, obviously agitated. When he spoke again, he barked, harshly, "Hurry! Hurry up or I'll take the _both_ of you and shoot them right here." To prove it, he raised his hand back in the air, and called for the second time, "Aim!"

Clicking. Rustling.

An inhale, as Feliks seemed to wake up at last.

A low, weak, "Wait."

The soldier's hand fell still again.

Oh... How had this come to be? They had been in bed together this time yesterday. Toris had been planning his 'forever'. The feel of Feliks' nose against his own.

A long stare, a longer silence, and then Feliks looked at the officer, through those wide eyes, and said, in more of a whisper, "I can't. I can't. I can't go. I—" He turned his eyes back to Toris then, as if somehow he were suddenly beseeching Toris to _understand_. "I gotta... I can't. _I_ can't go, I gotta take care of those guys, my guys, we've always been together, I can't let anything happen to 'em, I gotta—"

The world stopped.

The feel of Feliks' hands in his hair. Gone. Everything was gone, just like that, at those words. Everything ended.

Gone.

And Feliks was still staring at him, still trying to plead with his eyes, but his voice had stopped, and the stare had become somehow forced. As if Feliks couldn't even bring himself to look at Toris anymore but was too scared to look away. Toris knew that Feliks must have been staring at him like that because Toris must have looked _astounding_ in that instant, because the way Toris suddenly felt probably could have caused the trees around them to burst into flames. That awful, rising wave. Burning. Had never felt this way, not ever, hadn't even known he could feel this way. He couldn't even think of words to describe it, because it was an entirely new sensation.

Wrath.

Had never felt it before. It gripped his chest harder than the fear ever had.

Toris, already feeling far beyond betrayed even though Feliks hadn't outright said it, hadn't had the fuckin' balls to say it directly, wanted to screech, 'I'm one of 'those guys', you son of a bitch, don't you turn your fuckin' back on me, I did _everything_ for you, everything!'

Those guys. What was he, then? What was he? What had _he_ been? He had been one of them. He was only here because of Feliks. Never in his life would he have been in this situation if not for that man. Would have never in his life have thought to join up with that group if Feliks hadn't put his hand upon the whole thing. Feliks had led him out there, and Toris had followed behind dumbly, because, as he always had been, Toris was just a stupid lamb.

Led to slaughter.

Never woulda been here if not for Feliks.

Couldn't say a fuckin' word, he was so stunned. So betrayed. So _hurt_.

Maybe Feliks loved life, alight, so _much_ that he wouldn't give it up for anyone. Not even Toris.

The officer, hardly seeming more sympathetic to Feliks than Toris, was sneering and looking at Feliks as if he were a bug, hands loose at his sides and head shaking irritably. And then he scoffed, and waved his hand in the air, as Feliks tried to sputter some more bullshit, griping, "Enough, enough. Alright. That's that, then."

With that, the soldier put his cap back on his head with a look of finality.

That's that? Was that it? Was that really it? Was this it? Was this how his life was going to end? Was this really how it was supposed to be? Was this how he was going to go out?

The phrase had been so casual—that's that.

Hadn't ever seen this outcome, not in his worst nightmare. Hadn't Feliks been the one to say first that he had wanted forever? Feliks had said it.

The officer waved his hand in the air again, this time towards the soldiers; the guns were lowered, just barely, and Toris felt a hand on his arm.

The deal had been made. The men were saved. Feliks sold him up the river, and saved himself.

A drag backwards. Toris didn't struggle. Didn't care about _that_ , didn't care about being pulled along, didn't care, not as intent as he was on trying to murder Feliks where he stood with his eyes alone, but Feliks, the miserable son of a bitch, had bowed his head, shoulders slumped, and was staring at his feet. Feliks wouldn't look at him, wouldn't even look at him. His shoulders were shaking. Crying.

Toris didn't care, couldn't have cared less.

Feliks had _betrayed_ him. Not fair—had it been reversed, had it been the other way around, Toris liked to think that he would have at least tried harder, would have at least argued, would have at least given an effort. Wouldn't have just outright given up. Not like that.

The terrifying soldier had looked just as agitated, dragging Toris as he was, and Toris heard him mutter to his men, as they went, "Poles! Useless. Pathetic. Tch—should just raze this whole country and exterminate them. Waste of good land."

Laughter.

Toris felt so numb. So numb. _Feliks_ —

A car door opened somewhere, who knew where, didn't know where he was anymore, and Toris was shoved inside. Inside a car. Didn't know why, didn't know for what, didn't know where he was going, and didn't care.

How had it come to be? The beautiful, bright, colorful world had become grey. Dull.

Listlessness. All he cared about was Feliks not being there.

The officer stood there before the open door for a while, looking down at Toris, head tilted and mouth open as if he wanted to say something, but in the end he only shook his head and slammed the door shut. When he got in on the other side, Toris had just stared out of the window, absolutely and utterly dazed. The car could have burst into flames then and Toris wouldn't have noticed.

He was in outer space. Lost. At the last second, as the car started lurching away, Toris could have sworn that he heard, over the whir of the engine, the distant sound of gunshots.

Confusion.

Feliks. _Oh_ —Feliks' fingers had felt _so_ good running through his hair. Never again. Gone. He had been planning tonight. Tonight was supposed to be a good one. He had been looking forward to tonight. Not fair.

Feliks was gone.


	46. Part 2 - Meet Yourself

**Chapter 46**

**Part 2**

**Meet Yourself**

The whole drive back to Krakow, the soldier had just crossed his arms over his chest and glowered away at nothing. As if _he_ were the one that had been wronged.

Funny.

Toris had learned his name soon after.

An hour later, actually, when the officer had suddenly reached up, scratching the back of his neck irritably and then sending Toris a quick, strange look. A soft whisper, low in the car.

"My name's Ivan, by the way."

Ivan.

Toris had stared listlessly out of the window, until the Russian said, more forcefully, "I _said_ my name is Ivan."

Glancing over, dumbly, Toris had been aware of the crinkle of agitation in Ivan's brow, and heard himself say, in response, "Toris."

A long, hard stare, prying and observant, and then Ivan repeated, "Toris. Well. Guess that's not such a bad name."

Not knowing what else to do and feeling so helpless, so dazed, so hurt, Toris had just whispered, "Thanks."

Didn't seem like being rude was a very good idea at the moment, although it certainly would have been understandable.

Ivan.

Ivan had just given Toris a long look-over, and then started pouting again, like an overgrown kid, and turned his eyes back to the window. Toris followed suit. In Krakow, Toris could only sit absently in the car as the soldier leapt out and started walking back and forth irritably, and wondered now what was to become of him. Hadn't ever thought he'd be here; by all rights, he should have been back home in Lithuania, tending to the fuckin' sheep. How had he ever found himself in this situation? On his way to a damn gulag.

He hadn't ever done anything to anyone. He hadn't ever hurt anyone. Meeting Feliks had been the worst thing that had ever happened to him.

Ivan paced around outside for a while, and Toris eventually realized that they were in front of the train station, and all he could really do was sit still and wait. Some delirious part of him had hoped he was dreaming. Waking up anytime now. But he hadn't woken up, and Ivan had finally pulled open the door, and Toris felt himself step out without really being told to. A totter, as fear made him dizzy. So sick. He felt so sick, so nauseous, so faint, that he was surprised he was still standing upright at all.

Feliks was gone.

A stare between them, as absolutely apathy dulled the terror into manageable levels, and Toris could see the way Ivan had been shifting his shoulders and pursing his lips. Thinking.

Toris was shaking. Even when he clenched his fists, his hands just kept on shaking. Couldn't stop.

Finally, a sigh, and Ivan grumbled, "Well. I was gonna— I thought he'd... Well! I was gonna let _you_ go, anyway. I thought he would go. I was gonna let _you_ go home. You don't really look like much of a rebel."

He wasn't. He was pitiful.

All the same, Ivan was quick to add, "I can't let you go, but, hell. I don't think you'd last too long in a gulag, and it shoulda been him, the coward, so... Well. ...guess I'll take you home."

...what?

Didn't seem to understand the words, even though he had clearly heard them, matter-of-fact as they had been.

Somehow, after that, Toris was on a train to Moscow, sitting silently next to an equally silent Ivan, and even though Toris had felt more exhausted than he thought possible, he couldn't even sleep. Too sick. Mind whirring with too much. Couldn't sleep.

Moscow. Suddenly, he had been in Moscow, and he didn't know how or why, but it had occurred to Toris, blearily, that this Colonel General beside of him could have owned the world if he had wanted to. Just those eyes, and that look on his face. That man could have done anything.

As it turned out, he hadn't been too far off.

Ivan seemed to be able to get away with anything and looked as if he knew it, and when Toris found himself stepping off that train again in the center of Moscow, when he was in another car and being driven into the outskirts of the city, Ivan had looked over at him, and had asked, "You Polish?"

Took Toris a while to find his voice.

"Lithuanian."

"Do you have your papers?"

Toris shook his head. Had left everything behind with Feliks.

God, he hoped, more than anything, that when Feliks got home, when he returned with his tail between his legs, when he saw Toris' things, he _hoped_ that Feliks cried. Hoped that he fell to his knees and reached out to grab that shirt that Toris had left upon the couch. Hoped that he curled up and laid there and cried himself to sleep. Hoped it _hurt_.

Ivan seemed hardly concerned to Toris' mental anguish, and said softly, over the sound of the street, "Well, I guess tomorrow I'll make you some new ones. Do you want to keep your name? Now's a good time to change it. If you want."

Didn't understand that either, but Toris had shaken his head again.

"Alright."

New papers. Like it were nothing. Ivan could do anything.

What was the point in changing his name? He had never been anyone, anyway. What did it matter what his name was anymore? His life had ended.

Half an hour outside the city, they came up to a house, and Toris was rather resigned by then. What else could he do but just let Ivan take him where he would? His choice had been made for him. The house was another one. Just a house, a normal house, but seemed like so much more. Seemed like the end of the line. Seemed like the edge of the universe. The event horizon. Felt like night. Ivan dragged him out of the car and up to the steps, and when Ivan was shoving him through the door, there had suddenly been a woman in front of him.

A woman?

She had seemed startled, more than anything, wide-eyed and absolutely astounded to see someone else there. Toris had been just as startled, honestly, and could only stare at her. Stuck in that bleary daze. Nothing seemed real anymore. The world didn't seem real. She was, though, apparently, because he could hear her footsteps as she came forward.

Did this terrifying, ruthless man have a _wife_? How strange. What sort of woman would have ever wound up with a man like that?

A long look between them, before she had finally said, a bit anxiously, "Oh! Ivan, you...made a friend. Hi, there. I'm Irina. His sister. Nice to meet you."

Sister.

Toris felt so lost. So terrified. So defeated. So damn confused, beyond it all.

Beside of him, Ivan was quiet.

Toris finally opened his mouth, and uttered, weakly, "I'm Toris."

That was all he got out.

Wondered, briefly, if this woman was as crazy as her brother.

Irina smiled at him suddenly, walking forward to put her hand to his cheek at the sight of his fear, and Toris knew then, someway, somehow, that he would never leave this place again. That he would never leave these people. Could feel it.

He stepped into the house, the door shut behind him, and just like that, the world was gone.

The sound of that door. Death.

That first day had been a blur at best. Ivan and Irina had been speaking to him, he was sure of it, but their words were white noise. Someone led him into a room and pushed him down onto a bed. A hand on his forehead. A bottle of vodka placed into his hand. Gentle voices.

Toris spaced out there as much as Feliks had in that field.

And he got the answer to his silent question before the end of the day; Irina was as crazy as her brother, just perhaps in different ways. When Toris came to his senses late at night, he could hear them shrieking at each other from time to time, and sometimes in the middle of it all there was slamming doors and _screams_. Actual screams.

Toris felt terrified of the both of them and spent the first few days sitting stark still in the room Ivan had given him and just not knowing what to do. Didn't know what was happening. Didn't know what was going on.

Didn't know why he was _here_.

So he just collapsed on the bed, and cried himself senseless. Couldn't breathe half the time, he cried so damn much. Burying his face in the bed and wondering how everything had gone wrong so quickly. How one day had spiraled out of control. The bed was empty; someone had been next to him just the other day.

Ivan came in every day, staring down at Toris from the frame of the door, and on the third day, seeing a sniveling Toris, he had stepped inside the room and asked, sternly, "Why are you crying?"

Why? Why? Was it not obvious?

To that man, perhaps not, and Ivan had added, "Have I done anything to you? I haven't hurt you. I haven't done anything to you. Stop crying. I hate crying, I really do. You're not hurt. It's not even worth crying over. Stop crying, and get angry instead. Break something if you want. But stop crying, for god's sake."

With that, Ivan had backed out and slammed the door shut.

Suffocating silence, as the last dry sobs hung up in Toris' throat.

Not worth crying over. And somehow, well... Somehow, maybe Ivan was right. He had been sitting here bawling for days, when, truthfully, maybe he should have been raising hell. But Ivan had been wrong about being hurt; he was hurt, hurt more than he had thought possible, and it felt so awful that Toris didn't know what else to do. Crying seemed like the obvious solution. In hindsight, though, maybe Ivan was right. Maybe anger was a more appropriate response.

Break something, eh? Oh, yeah, sure, the window, maybe. Ha...

Truthfully, Toris didn't really know _why_ he didn't just break the window and leave. Could have easily broken the window. Could have left. Didn't know why he just sat there. Why he didn't crawl out in the middle of the night and disappear into the city. Why he didn't run.

Too scared.

Felt like Ivan was always watching, even when he wasn't there in the room. Who was to say that Ivan actually wasn't standing on the other side of that window, waiting in the shadows?

And when Ivan _was_ there, when he was watching Toris, Toris felt inexplicably petrified. As if Ivan was able to literally freeze him on spot. Ivan looked him over so intently, with such scrutiny, that Toris couldn't help but wonder exactly what Ivan was trying to see. What Ivan was trying to figure out. Why Ivan's eyes caught his own, bored into them, and then why Ivan usually just walked back out without a word.

What was Ivan thinking?

Every day was the same, that first week. Alone and yet never alone. But Toris didn't spend the day crying, anymore. Something else rose up in the place of despair.

Hate.

All he could do was just sit there and replay that betrayal over and over again in his head since there was just nothing else to do. Every second of every day. Feliks. Always Feliks. He thought about Feliks every day and every night and, for it, it hadn't taken long before Toris had started _hating_ him. Just a few days, actually. More honestly, maybe he could say that he had started hating Feliks the very second that Feliks had frozen in place and lost his voice.

Hate. The first time he had ever truly felt it. It had been easy to sit with those guys and say, 'I hate the Reds', but it had only been words, maybe not a truthful statement, because how could Toris ever really hate something that he didn't know much about? He said it, but he hadn't ever really felt it.

Felt this, though.

Sometimes, late at night, he wished that Ivan had left the decision to him. So that he could have sent Feliks off. So that he could have been the one to stand there and say, ' _I_ can't go.'

That hate started festering there beneath the surface.

Ivan came into his room on the fifth day, saw him sitting there, head hanging but not crying, and said, "Come eat."

Toris had jumped at the voice, wide-eyed and frightened, and had just stayed still long after Ivan had left the room.

He didn't eat. Couldn't. Sick to his stomach.

So he sat silently, instead, and listened to the soft sounds of crooning voices as crazy Ivan and crazy Irina chattered away over dinner, like normal people did, and meanwhile somewhere in Poland there were dead men sprawled out in a field. The sound of silverware on plates and chairs scraping over tile. They had been shot, he knew it, he was sure of it, maybe not Feliks but those men had been shot, and here Ivan was casually going about daily life.

Before long, though, that soft speech turned back into screaming again. They fought so frequently, so randomly, and Toris didn't know why.

Those days were the most terrifying as well as the most confusing in his life. Helplessness.

Didn't know what to do, because he didn't understand anything. Didn't understand what Ivan wanted from him. Couldn't comprehend his sudden role in this world. Where he fit in. Was he just supposed to _live_ here? Was he a member of the family? This crazy family. Was he a ward? A refugee here? A pet? Had Ivan just been so appalled at Feliks' cowardice that he had seen no other choice but to pity Toris and bring him home like a stray dog?

Insanity. This house.

Ivan was gentle with him at first, all things considered, gentle at least after seeing the way he had so ruthlessly taken care of that group. He looked at Toris, perhaps, as a hapless victim, and maybe he had tried to find redeeming qualities in him. Guess he hadn't found any to his liking, because his best efforts at gentleness had lasted for about a month.

Nothing about Toris had impressed Ivan, from the moment they had met. When Feliks had been there before him, Ivan hadn't even once bothered to look at Toris. Ivan had wanted Feliks, god only knew for what, but he tried all the same to adapt to Toris being in the house.

One day, in what had been his second week there, Ivan had come up to him, as he sat forlorn in his bedroom, and had stood before him with a tilted head of curiosity. Toris had been too terrified to even look up at him, as he always was. Pitiful.

A long, hard stare, and Ivan had finally said, in that soft voice, "You haven't eaten. It's been a while. Don't say you're not hungry. You're getting too thin."

He was hungry, he was, but the will didn't come. So he only stared at the floor, and couldn't find his voice.

Ivan must have been tired of his bullshit, though, because he came inside, grabbed his arm, yanked him upright, and dragged him into the kitchen. But Toris had been so terrified of the physical contact that he hadn't been able to eat anything Irina put down in front of him. Just stared at it, dumbly, and made no move to eat. Ivan had furrowed his brow, shook his head, and had lost his patience, coming up from behind and gripping a handful of Toris' hair in a painful vice until he had complied.

Toris never missed a meal after that.

Sure didn't impress Ivan, though, and impressing Ivan had seemed important right away, because Ivan could just up and shoot him at any given time. If Ivan finally got too annoyed with Toris, then who was to say Ivan wouldn't shoot him?

Since Toris didn't know what Ivan _wanted_ , it seemed all the more imperative to try to keep him happy. So hard, though, so hard, because nothing he did ever seemed to make Ivan happy. Could Ivan even be _happy_ , exactly? A strange word to attempt to attach to that man.

Ivan was always _angry_. Always. Always, and Toris didn't know why.

This house felt like a mousetrap.

Toris didn't know where the springs were, either, so he had to edge along blindly and hope to god that he didn't do anything to piss Ivan off and get his neck snapped for it.

Hadn't been there that long and already he had seen Ivan punching walls quite frequently. Holes all over the place. Had seen Ivan's face when he was screaming at Irina. Had seen that terrifying look of fury and darkness.

Once, it had been him that Ivan had punched, and Toris really didn't even know what he had done.

He had just been in the wrong place at the wrong time, when Ivan had gone into one of those moods, and hadn't even known what the hell had happened when Ivan had just grabbed his collar, yanked him forward, and clocked him one in the nose. Hadn't broken his nose, surprisingly; Ivan hadn't punched him that hard, not nearly as hard as he could have. Maybe he had just wanted to relieve some stress. Toris' bloody nose was as good as anything.

Other times, Ivan wasn't violent, but was just...

Odd.

Ivan just stared at him, sometimes, just stared and stared and stared, and Toris always looked away because it was too much for him. Irina stared at him, too, and when Toris and Ivan were in the same room together, Irina stopped and watched them so carefully that Toris thought maybe she was trying to see something going on between them, who knew what.

Ivan was always so moody, always so irritable. So angry.

Nothing had ever been as confusing as attempting to discern his purpose in that house. Between this crazy place and a gulag, however...

For the moment, Toris was staying put.

Sometimes, Toris wondered if Ivan regretted bringing him home, because Ivan always looked so agitated. Wasn't sure if it was because of Toris or if Ivan was just always like that. Maybe, in some way, Toris must not have been living up to whatever expectations Ivan had had. Not fair, though; he didn't know what was expected of him.

Didn't know why he was here.

Wanted to, though, so the third week, Toris finally found his voice, and asked a drunk Ivan, carefully, "Why did you bring me here?"

Ivan looked at him from beneath a furrowed brow, eyes bleary, and had said, a bit snappily, "What? What, where do you want to be? Do you want me to send you to a gulag? You want me to send you to prison? Do you want me to shoot you? What do you want?"

Pale and weak and terrified, Toris had immediately responded, "No, that's not what I meant, please, I just... I just wanted to know why. I'm sorry."

Ivan had turned his head away with a grimace, and had seemed agitated after that.

"What? You don't like it here or somethin'? Is that it? Wanna go somewhere else?"

Toris, going into damage control and knowing that 'somewhere else' would probably be a grave, said, "No. I...I like it here. I just don't understand why you wanted me to come here with you."

A scoff.

Then, finally, Ivan uttered, "I didn't. I thought he would go."

Yeah, Toris had always figured as much, and so he didn't really know why it stung just a little to hear Ivan say it. If Ivan didn't want him, then why keep him? Why not let him go? Why put them both into a position neither of them really wanted to be in? Why had Ivan brought him home with him if he was just going to be angry about it all the time?

Toris was too scared to ask again, and knew it was time to shut the hell up.

Not a moment too soon, either, because Toris heard Ivan grumble, later, "Oughta be grateful. I could have had you shot."

That was true, so Toris never questioned it again, even though he was no closer to understanding, because truly he was only alive now by Ivan's whim and good graces. And honestly, when he thought about it, Toris was quite sure that even Ivan didn't know why he had brought Toris home. A spur of the moment decision, no doubt, and Ivan was just as clueless to the reason as Toris was.

Ivan had just done it, and there was no rationality.

Soon, that issue seemed hardly pressing.

A month into Toris' tenure, Ivan became a general, and that was when everything had been flipped. When everything Toris had thought he knew about this place and these siblings was shattered.

Ivan became a general. Something about him had shifted.

He had come back from the city one day, strutting through the door with a high chin, and Toris could see right off in Ivan's self-satisfied sneer that he had been given the world. A ticket to do anything.

And Toris was right. Ivan did own the world now, and he knew it.

At the train station in Krakow, Ivan had seemed so irritated and uncertain about what he was going to do with Toris, fumbling his words and awkward with his gestures. No more. The day Ivan became a general, he never fumbled again. Like something had clicked in his head. Like something in Ivan had woken up. Something had risen. Something had escaped. Toris had been scared of Ivan before; he was _terrified_ of him after that. Absolutely terrified. There weren't even words he knew to describe how frightened he was of that new Ivan. Hadn't ever met a man so terrifying as the one that came home that day with four stars on his shoulder.

And then, suddenly, out of the blue, Ivan said, "We're moving."

Moving?

The day Ivan became a general, he had shifted. Two days later, Ivan left Moscow behind, with a look of absolute _relief_ , and suddenly Toris found himself on another train, this time on the Trans-Siberian. Didn't know where they were going. Almost didn't care by that point.

Ivan didn't even keep an eye on Toris much during the journey, and frequently left him to his own devices while on the train. For good reason; Toris hadn't even bothered trying to escape all this time. Hadn't given one single effort. Didn't know how, or where to go. Didn't belong anywhere. He had slipped into exhausted submission so quickly. Moscow had been his chance to escape. Could have gotten away in Moscow.

Didn't know where he was going now. He missed his chance.

Ten days later, after what felt like an eternity, they reached the end of the line, the last station where the tracks ended, and Toris was in a car. The drive took hours, and Toris could only look out into the endless forests and think, 'By god! Do people really live here?'

Had never thought he would be in Siberia, but here he was. The most feared place on Earth. From now on, though, apparently it was home.

Toris had bee so passive and timid and complacent because, honestly, he had still been in shock about the entire situation. Still felt like a bad dream, still didn't feel real. He hadn't run because he just couldn't believe any of it had happened.

He asked Irina, timidly and quietly so as not to agitate this new Ivan, "Where are we going?"

She twisted around to look at him from the front, and said, just as quietly, "I think it's called Mirny. I don't know much about it. It's really new. We'll be one of the first ones to settle there."

Far from comforting. The great unknown.

Beside of Toris, Ivan had just stared out of the window, arms crossed over his chest, and appeared deep in thought. His foot had been tapping.

Seeing that house for the first time had been rather astounding, rather spectacular, overwhelming and awe-inspiring, and even Ivan had leaned forward to look through the windshield as it loomed out from the distance, hands gripping the seats.

Toris could smell his cologne.

The smile on Ivan's face had frightened Toris then. As if, somehow, Ivan was laying eyes upon something he had damn-well earned. Something he had striven to get. Maybe that scared Toris because he had seen what Ivan was capable of doing to get something he wanted.

Settling there in Siberia, though, settling down in that tiny, brand-new town, didn't seem to make Ivan any less dangerous. Didn't seem to bring him back to that slightly less frightening man that had brought Toris home. Being away from Moscow didn't calm Ivan. Actually, being here seemed to make Ivan worse. Not violently, not physically, but mentally. Stoked his ego, heightened his sense of self-worth. Self-confidence and self-satisfaction had amplified. Siberia seemed to thrust Ivan into the realm of gods.

If there was anything good that Toris could say about Siberia, however, was that it also made Ivan less angry. Less irritable. Ivan was always moody, yeah, but so was Toris. Siberia didn't set Ivan off as much as Moscow had, and Toris was grateful for that. Ivan wasn't angry every day anymore. This strange, crazy man was apparently his family now, one way or another, so him being in a good mood was quite welcome.

Another perk of Siberia was that, since Ivan was in a better mood, Ivan paid Toris more positive attention. He'd take it, if it kept him alive.

The diamond mine was still being carved when Ivan walked Toris out to it a few days after settling into the house, and Toris had gaped at it in wonder, the ore and dirt crunching beneath his feet. Diamond dust, all around. A breathtaking sight.

Ivan had smiled, then, staring out over that mine, and what he said seemed to sum up everything Toris had ever thought about Ivan :

"I own the world now."

It was true, as far as Toris knew.

Ivan turned to him suddenly, looked him up and down, and asked, "Why did you join that group? What did you think you could do there? Did you really think you could accomplish anything?"

They were still strangers. Didn't know a thing about each other. Not a thing, aside from each other's names. Maybe Ivan was finally trying to learn a little about Toris, but Toris couldn't really imagine anything good coming from it. Nothing good ever seemed to come to him when others paid him attention.

But he was already becoming dependent on Ivan for survival, and now he was in godawful nowhere with wilderness all around, so he said, honestly, "I didn't really... It was an accident. I never meant to. I'd only been there for a few months."

Had never even really spoken to Ivan, not _really_. Over a month together and they hadn't had a real conversation. Kind of exhilarating, to be honest, Ivan speaking to him. Guy like that. A general. Someone powerful. Toris was still rather overwhelmed by the notion of Ivan.

A scoff.

Probably not impressing Ivan, but it was the truth.

"A few months? And yet you were second-in-command, were you not? Ah, if such titles can even be put to such a stupid little group. You must have done something to rise up so fast. What did you do? When I look at you, I don't see too much, to be honest. Surprise me. Tell me. What did you do?"

A wave of hurt. Anger. Hate. Didn't want to think about it. Didn't want to talk about it. And he didn't want to answer, because an honest answer would have been, 'Feliks.' He'd been fucking Feliks, hadn't he, the only damn reason Feliks had ever wanted him out there in the first place, the only reason Feliks had ever let him take control alongside him. All Feliks had ever cared about, apparently.

Bitterness.

So he said, stupidly, "I don't know."

A short silence as Ivan scrutinized him, and maybe Ivan could see the look of distaste upon his face, because he suddenly smirked, and reached into his pocket. A hand on Toris' own, forcing his fingers open, and something was placed in his palm.

He looked down, at the glitter.

Diamonds.

Ivan's eyes were hard, and so was his voice when he said, "Use them. You live with _me_ now. And you can't rise up here without my say so. I own this miserable country, these miserable people. This land. You live with me, so you do too, now. I won't have someone pitiful in my house. Make the most of it, won't you? Don't be a coward like he was. Diamonds get you anything. Use them. Go buy people. Use them, kill them, whatever you want. Get used it. Work yourself up. You live in a new world now. No more laws. No more rules. Forget whoever you were. You're who I tell you to be now. You were nothing. No one. I can make you something. It's too late; you're here now, aren't you? I stand by all of my decisions. I don't make mistakes. You won't be a mistake because I don't make them, you hear? So. Impress me, and you'll rise."

Enthralled by every word that came out of Ivan's mouth, Toris just stared at him in a dumb stupor, and could only nod his head. His heart hammered, because the words had actually felt pretty good. Toris wasn't a mistake. That felt good to hear, for whatever stupid reason.

Rise up to what, though? And impress Ivan how?

Toris stood there by the mine for hours, long after Ivan had gone, uncut diamonds clenched in his hands. Diamonds. Had never seen them before, had never felt them.

Powerful.

Somehow, someway, Ivan's words seemed to light something up, and so did the feel of the rocks within his palm. Or maybe that was just the hate.

Ivan could make him something, he said. Feliks was just a nobody. Coward.

All the while, Toris neatly tried to ignore the fact that he had frozen, too.

The third month, when he had finally thought maybe he was actually settling a little in that huge house, settling into this environment, was when Toris found himself for the first time in _that_ room. That awful room. Couldn't even remember what he had done. Actually, come to think, he was pretty sure that he hadn't done anything at all. Ivan had just been curious, having had that room and wondering if it really worked.

Ivan had just led him up the stairs one day, grabbed his arm, shoved him into the room, and locked the door. No words. No reason. No explanation. Toris hadn't even known what the hell was going on.

Toris had been an experiment, no doubt. Well. The room worked, alright. The worst days of his life, those four days.

Four days.

That was all. Just four days. Hadn't ever known four days could drag so long. It had only been four days. How had it done so much damage? Those awful things he had seen.

Feliks, leaving him all over again. The whispering in his head that was reminding him that Feliks had only wanted him for as long as Toris had stayed in his bed. That Feliks just hadn't cared enough to even raise his voice in protest, because Feliks just hadn't loved him. Hadn't ever loved him, of course not. People used other people all the time, and Feliks had been no different. He had been too damn stupid to realize it was all.

Every fear he had ever had in his life came to reality in that room.

Voices in his head, all the time. Constant reminders of his own ineptitude. His parents, disowning him and shunning him for being stupid enough to fall for this entire charade. Everyone he had ever loved, turning their backs on him just because he had been _stupid_. He had been stupid. But everyone was stupid at some point, everyone made mistakes, and everyone got a second chance.

Not him.

Four days, sprawled on the floor crying to himself and clenching diamonds in his hands, cutting himself on them as he stepped on them mindlessly. Talking to them.

Four days.

His one mistake seemed to be the end of his life. Life as he had known it, anyway; when Ivan opened that door at last, at last, after those awful four days, when Toris crawled outside, covered in blood, and grabbed onto Ivan's legs for dear life, when Toris had spent the night muttering to himself, when the dawn had broken the next day, Toris finally realized that he was in a new life.

The old one had gone. Feliks had gone.

He couldn't run away, because he had nowhere to go and no one to go to, and really, when he thought about it, if he had run then, as Ivan had said, he would just be nobody again. No one had ever looked at him twice, no one except Feliks, no one that hadn't wanted something from him. Ivan was the only thing around now, in this isolation and desolation, and those whispers, those voices that had been in his head, seemed to have made Toris come to a realization :

Ivan was keeping him, Ivan had brought him here, Ivan had given him those diamonds, Ivan was allowing him to be _alive_ , because Ivan could see something there in Toris that _he_ had never been able to.

Ivan saw something.

That day, when Feliks had turned, that awful, indescribable wrath that had come up from out of nowhere; Toris had never known he could feel that, not something like that, not a boring guy like him, but maybe Ivan could sense the potential for something hateful and dangerous in Toris. Maybe Ivan kept him now because Ivan could somehow anticipate things to come. Maybe Ivan could see that Toris didn't know who he was, didn't know what he wanted in life, didn't know a damn thing about the world.

Ivan could see that Toris was capable of absolute hatred, and therefore capable of who knew what, and Ivan could see that Toris had been easy to mold.

Ivan took advantage of it, and before he had even healed up, Ivan had thrown him back in that room, but only for a day. For the next week, Ivan threw him in there every other day, just to make him crazy, and it worked. Didn't take long before the sight and sound of doors brought up the notion of utter terror.

Doors.

Toris' head might have never been screwed on right, but Ivan knew how to make it worse.

Doors. Couldn't stand them anymore, couldn't stand the sound of one shutting.

By the time Ivan had let him out the last time, uttering only, "That's enough for now," Toris didn't know where the hell he was or who he was, but he knew one thing—hate.

Rise up.

Maybe that was Toris' purpose here. Just to hate the world. Maybe that was what Ivan had wanted. Ivan seemed to hate the world, so maybe he wanted a companion. Anyone could start hating the world, in the right circumstance. Being in that room had made Toris realize that anyone could be _crazy_ , no matter where they may have come from or how plain and nice they had once been. Sitting there, nursing his wounds in silence, Toris had realized that loving the world was more exhausting than hating it. Loving took work and thought and sacrifice. Hate required nothing. Easier to use people.

Anger seeped in.

Doors.

With every day that passed from that point on, Toris had woken up every morning and felt ever the more angry. And he didn't know _why_. Sometimes he woke up and felt agitated. Sometimes he woke up and felt rather normal. Sometimes he woke up and felt lethargic. And sometimes, sometimes he woke up and just wanted to _scream_. Sometimes, it was Toris who punched walls.

Ivan just watched him, and every so often, Toris caught him smiling. Ivan watched, and waited.

Couldn't sleep anymore; the door wouldn't let him.

Four months into his new life was when Ivan finally stared at him from the door of a room, and had said, oddly, "Toris. Come here."

Toris had obeyed, immediately, pulse racing and hoping to god that he hadn't done anything wrong, _that_ room still very fresh in his mind, but Ivan didn't look angry, and when Toris crept into the room and the door had been shut behind him, he saw that Irina was there, too.

They stared at him, and Ivan came forward, reaching out.

Toris jumped and flinched, standing up straight even as he ducked his chin down and braced himself. Not a conscious choice. Just his defensive reaction around a dangerous man. Ivan didn't hit him, though, didn't grab him roughly or violently as he often had before in Moscow, and suddenly reached out to absently brush his hair, as Feliks once had.

A rush of anger, so powerful that it burned, and he was quick to push Feliks' name from his mind. Didn't want to hear that name ever again, even in his own head. Hated that man.

That man.

Ivan's fingers went to his chin, grabbed it firmly, forced his head up, and there was a silent observation. Toris could only wait. Ivan pulled back soon, put his hands on his hips as he continued to look Toris over. After a while, Toris dared a glance up, and could see that Ivan's face was actually quite relaxed. Seemed almost happy, in a way. As if he were excited about something.

Steadily, Toris stopped bracing, and then suddenly Ivan was holding out Toris' arm, sensing the width of his shoulders, measuring his height with his eyes alone, and it became apparent that Ivan was sizing him up. For what?

When Ivan pulled back again, he nodded his head to himself, and said, to himself, "Yeah, I think that'll be good."

Then Ivan was searching through drawers, and, out of nowhere, Toris found himself being stripped down and stuffed into a uniform. A uniform? He had looked down, dumbly, at the clothes he was suddenly wearing.

Olive.

...hadn't ever thought he'd be wearing a Red Army uniform. So long sabotaging that army, so long riling them up. So long doing everything to irritate them. Maybe he was dreaming somewhere. Drunk or something. Still locked in that room.

Ivan stood up straight, and then said, "Senior Sergeant! I think that's good for you."

Felt like he was dreaming for sure when Ivan was suddenly brushing him down, straightening things up, and then dragged him over to the mirror with a noise of approval. Hands in his hair again, this time as Ivan pulled back his loose hair to better see him in the mirror.

Toris wasn't going to lie and say that Ivan's rough hands didn't feel good when they weren't hitting him.

Another 'hm' of contentment.

Irina said, from behind, "Oh! Say, he looks good in that, doesn't he?"

Good? Him? In this uniform? Confused as hell, yeah, but he looked at himself in the mirror all the same, at his reflection, and felt strange. Was that really him?

He was a little paler than he had been before, for all these months in limbo. A bit thinner. His eyes were heavier, the circles under them quite visible, and yet, somehow, that look of tiredness seemed to make the uniform look that much better. More real. When was the last time anyone had seen a happy Red soldier? His hair was out of his face, held back by Ivan's hands, the embroidery on the shoulders made them look sterner and broader. The color wasn't so bad with the shade of his skin, and it made him look taller and bigger than he was. He looked...

Well.

Looked like Ivan. Looked almost just like Ivan, just a little smaller and with darker hair. Looked like Ivan. Felt like he had opened the door to that vehicle all over again, only this time he saw himself there, although he didn't recognize it as himself.

Go figure.

Not a lamb anymore. Looked more like a hawk. A raptor, ready to swoop. Was this what Ivan had seen in him all along? Was this what Ivan had been building him up to? All those days in that room; had they been in preparation for this?

Ivan stared at him in the mirror for a bit, lifted up his chin, and said, "You look better in it than I thought, I admit."

Ridiculously, strangely, absurdly, Toris had stared at himself in that mirror, and felt a twinge of pride, exacerbated by Ivan's words of approval. Never in his life, in his dull, boring life, had he ever thought he would wear an army uniform, not in his craziest delusions. Ivan nitpicked here and there, as Toris gazed at himself in what felt like awe. Felt mesmerized.

He found himself looking at Ivan, once his voice came back, and asking, "Why are you giving me this? Is this really mine?"

Ivan had stared at him for a while, and then said, "There's a lot of work in being a general, you know. More than I thought, honestly. I could use someone to help me out. Paperwork and all. Maybe I can take you out, sometimes. Meetings. Get you out there and get you settled. That way you can help me out with papers and such. Didn't I tell you about rules? I'll take you out, sometime, and show you how to run the world. Aren't you angry? Don't you feel like hurting someone?"

Run the world.

That twinge of pride exploded into a fire. The thought of helping _Ivan_ , in whatever way, seemed somehow exhilarating, because he _was_ angry, and sometimes he thought about hurting that man.

Had been so boring all his life.

That man had betrayed him.

And so, Toris could only really figure that it was that bitterness that led him to say, "I speak a couple of languages, if you ever need that, too."

Even though his voice was pale and weak, he still felt so damn important suddenly. Hoped that man could feel this, somehow. Hoped it was painful.

Ivan had lifted up his brow, leering a little, and seemed quite satisfied with himself. As if Toris' compliance with all of this would be extremely beneficial to him. Toris knew that Ivan was doing it to help himself, to relieve that burden of being a general a bit, but he took the uniform anyway, because he looked good in it and it made him feel important.

Because, steadily, that hate for that man was causing him to lose touch with that side of himself that had loved life and the world.

The wheel kept turning, and just when Toris had found balance, something new came up. He drifted further from himself, and somehow closer. Not the Toris his parents had known, but one that he felt might have been there all along. One that didn't seem like such a stranger. He was who he was, and everyone had two sides.

He let go of his gentle side, and let the dark one out.

Underneath it all, though, was always that voice of reason. Conscience. No matter how hard Toris tried, he couldn't kill it, so instead all he could do was sweep it under the rug and hope it didn't come out at a bad time.

Being powerful, being in that house, being with Ivan, was suddenly the most important thing in Toris' life, even if he knew that Ivan was only doing it for himself. Ivan became something more than a housemate. Than a warden. Ivan become the man that could turn Toris into something. Ivan could see it, could see how _desperate_ he was to _be_ somebody, could see how much he needed a leader, a purpose, a function, how much he needed someone to tell him that he was worthy, because Toris had never been able to see it by himself. Ivan could see it, and was giving it to him, in his own way.

That uniform came with its own curse, though, and that curse came in the form of Ivan's training. Couldn't wear the uniform without earning it. Had to learn to be a soldier. Ivan was as ruthless in training Toris as he had been in that field, as uncaring and unbending. Physical endurance became a part of his daily routine, and Ivan ran him into the dirt, pushing him to the point where he sometimes quite literally collapsed in exhaustion.

Beyond that, there were more technical details.

How to stand at attention. How to perfect his posture. How to hold his chin up and chest out and shoulders straight. How to look confident and strong, even if he wasn't. How to harden his face. How to hold his hands. How to place his feet. How to move his knees. How to press the uniform. How to walk as if he were walking right on top of other people.

Ivan taught him everything.

And the salute was the worst, the absolute worst. Took him _so_ long to get it right, and every time he didn't, every time he flinched, every time his line wasn't perfectly straight, every time his wrist bent, Ivan slapped him across the face. Not so hard, hardly enough to even sting, but enough to get the point across that a damn salute was the last thing he ever wanted to mess up in front of real soldiers.

Ivan beat it into him, so that Toris would blend in amongst the others, even though Toris honestly at that point had still thought that maybe Ivan had just been leading him on.

It took about a month. Might have taken longer, but Ivan's rough hands and Toris' own desire to make _that man_ squirm from afar spurred him on to learn faster.

Once he had settled into the uniform, once he had gotten the salute right, Toris had looked himself in the mirror one day, hair pulled back and posture absolutely perfect, and realized that he was _proud_ of himself. He looked important, and that made him feel important. Ivan was making him into something. Didn't even matter _what._

Realized then that not only did he no longer look like a lamb, but he didn't feel like one anymore, either. Felt strange. Aggressive sometimes for no reason. Angry. Irritated. Agitated. Snapping all the time without being aware of it. Hissing like a snake. Felt so jittery, so stressed, so overwhelmed, so frustrated, so helpless underneath it all. In response, maybe defensively, he became aggressive.

If he had attached himself to that man so fervently, so quickly, in only a few months, then really he was just doing the same thing all over again, only this time he attached himself to Ivan. That man had brought out Toris' love of life; Ivan brought out the abhorrence for everything.

That man had made Toris care about the world and the people in it. Ivan told him that the world and the people in it were just there to own and use.

Didn't even take Toris that long to start accepting it and believing it. That long to change. That long to snap. Could only hit even the friendliest dog so many times before it started biting, and Toris wondered if his line had been crossed. Ivan had gotten to him, yeah, but wouldn't have been able to if it hadn't been for _that man_. Toris wouldn't have believed so easily that the world was horrible if that man hadn't betrayed him.

_His_ fault, not Toris'.

Something in Toris had slipped off the cliff, and Toris was steadily becoming more aggressive.

Never to Ivan, but sometimes he snipped at Irina without thinking about it. Ivan didn't seem to mind his moodiness; rather, Ivan looked like he enjoyed it. Ivan was moody, too, after all. Took one to know one, as they said. Hell, sometimes, Toris' changing moods actually made Ivan _smile_. One morning, Irina had said, 'Good morning, Toris', and Toris had thrown back, irritably, 'It'll be better when you leave me alone.' Irina had furrowed her brow and looked angry and offended, but Ivan had raised up his head from his coffee and barked out a laugh, looking oddly pleased.

Irina hadn't spoken to him for days.

Toris felt _strange_ sometimes.

Thinking about it all, maybe it hadn't been that man that had shoved Toris towards that cliff. Maybe it hadn't been Ivan. Maybe it was just Toris, the way he really was, and now he had the opportunity to come out because there was no one around to tell him otherwise. Maybe he had always been walking on the edge of that cliff, and had finally lost his balance. Maybe he had always really been a wolf, camouflaged amongst the sheep and biding time.

After all, he had realized in Poland that he had liked causing trouble. Maybe this was the next step upwards.

Six months.

Ivan was fascinating. Absolutely fascinating. The smartest man Toris had ever met, brilliant, cunning, and at the same time he was also the craziest. Couldn't figure Ivan out. Couldn't figure out what made him tick. What set him off. Couldn't figure out what was going on in Ivan's head. Fascinating. Wanted to know more about him. Wanted to understand him.

It didn't take Toris too long being in Siberia to realize that he liked it when Ivan paid him attention, no matter how irritated or how annoyed or sometimes how violent that attention may have been, although Ivan's violence seemed to come completely at random and less frequently out here. Toris was terrified of him, absolutely, and yet something about Ivan was so interesting that Toris just wanted to know more.

Six months. Couldn't believe he had only been here for six months. Felt like so much longer.

Winter had already hit this town long before the rest of the world, and Toris couldn't go outside anymore. Hadn't been taught that by Ivan yet. Hadn't been taught how to survive this cold. Since he was trapped, Toris was learning more about them. Learned more and more about Ivan these days, mostly because he pried information out of Irina when she was drunk.

And Irina was drunk a lot.

Lately, Toris had been too, because Ivan had been gone, out on a tour, and despite his declarations, Ivan hadn't yet taken Toris out with him, so all he could do was stay behind with Irina and drink.

This land, this isolation, this silence, this nothingness seemed to be taking a toll on Irina, in a different way than it had her brother; Siberia had made Ivan feel as if he owned the world, and yet to Irina it had seemed to make her feel as if life had ended.

Toris sat with her on the couch every night that Ivan was gone, and listened to her tipsy chattering as she leaned into his side, sometimes resting her head down on his shoulder. She didn't scare him so much anymore, crazy or no, and sometimes she got on his last nerve, but steadily he began to view her as easy access to Ivan.

Couldn't ask Ivan about himself, because he was too scared, so he asked Irina. Through Irina, Toris met Ivan. Maybe he was using her loneliness for his own gain, but if he was then someone else had taught him to do that. Everything he knew nowadays, it seemed, had been taught to him by someone else.

One night, as they sat pressed together on the couch, Toris had slung his arm over her shoulders, she had smiled as she pressed her head down against his chest, and Toris had felt confident enough to ask her about what had made Ivan so crazy in the first place.

All he had asked was, "So! Why is Ivan so strange? What made him that way?"

Hadn't actually said the word 'crazy', because she was the same and he didn't want to offend her before she could spill the beans.

Luckily for him, her chatterbox mouth was happy to keep on a movin', and she immediately said, "Oh, it happened a long time ago."

Then, she started talking. Toris paid attention.

The first time he had heard the story of Ivan's childhood and family. Of his father. Knowing Ivan. Toris memorized every single word that came out of Irina's mouth and applied it to the puzzle he was constructing in his head.

She seemed oblivious to what Toris really wanted from her, and afterwards, she had looked up at him, and had said, randomly, "You're very handsome, Toris. Have I told you that? You look really nice in this uniform. You've gotten really strong."

A puff of his chest and lift of his chin, and he had only grunted a quick, "Thanks."

A nose nuzzled into his shoulder. She grabbed hold of his bicep, and he flexed a bit for her, 'cause why the hell not. As long as she kept talking. And she did.

"Oh, Toris, I hate it here so much! I miss Moscow. Isn't that stupid? It was my idea, you know, to come here. Well, not _here_ , but it was my idea to move, because Ivan hates Moscow, but I wish now that I hadn't said anything. I hate it here. I can't stand it. I miss people. I hate being alone all the time."

Fingers in his shirt. Toris sat there, and didn't twitch a muscle as she kept nuzzling into him. Knew what she wanted, knew she was so lonely that Toris seemed like a damn good option, and had every intention of playing along for as long as she would tell him everything he wanted to know.

"Why did you want to move?"

A bleary glance.

"Ivan gets into trouble so much. He gets away with most of it, but if he had stayed there he would have done something that would have gotten him into so much trouble that he would have been arrested. I know. I could tell. He was getting worse. Out here, I guess it's better for him, because there's not so much to do. But, oh... I hate it here."

A silence, and before Toris could think of any more questions, Irina finally had one of her own.

She pressed her face into his neck, hand running over his chest, and asked, quietly, "Has Ivan done anything...strange?"

Toris had just lifted his brow and asked, "What do you mean?"

Out of the corner of his eye, Toris was always watching the door, just in case.

Hated doors.

Irina didn't look at him, and her fingers kept on clenching and unclenching in the fabric of his shirt.

"With you, I mean. I know he's always been a little...well. Different. Sometimes, I wonder. He was engaged, you know, back in Moscow, but he broke it off the day before we left. He never did love _her_ , I knew that, but he wasn't ever really normal around women. He hasn't told me anything, but I can see it. He can't hide anything from me. He brought you here. He's never brought anyone home, never, and I thought... Well. He won't say it, but I know. Has he gone into your room?"

Toris had almost lost the last of her words, stunned as he had been at the thought of Ivan having ever been engaged.

_Engaged_? Astonishing.

Beyond his shock, Toris grasped what she was alluding to, and he answered, softly, "No."

Ivan hadn't ever wanted him. That was why he had to strive twice as hard. Ivan had wanted someone else, and with Irina's words, Toris might have started to understand why. Ivan must have seen something in that man that he had liked, and that was why Ivan had been so set on _him_ , never casting Toris a second glance. Ivan had seen, too, perhaps, how beautiful that man had been. That shouldn't have agitated Toris quite as much as it did.

Irina was still for a while, and then asked, "Really? I'm surprised. Would you... Would you want him to?"

By then, Toris was pretty sure that Irina was asking to figure out her own chances rather than those of her little brother, and Toris couldn't really figure out what to say to that. He was terrified of Ivan, but was fascinated by him, too, and the thought of Ivan ever actually coming into his room and locking the door was somehow horrifying and exhilarating.

He couldn't even figure out what the hell he _felt_ for Ivan.

Hated him, had always hated him, since the first moment Ivan had uttered those words, and yet lately he had started adoring him in an odd way. Hate and love, after all, could go hand in hand. And maybe if he could love someone so much one day and then hate them the next, the opposite could be just as true. As much as he hated Ivan, it was absolutely possible to love him the next day.

Ivan was unlike any other human he had ever met, and sometimes Toris wondered if he actually _was_ human. That alone was worth some interest.

So, finally, he said, "I don't know."

Irina, drunk as she was, finally cut to the chase and asked, "Would you want me to?"

Aw, hell.

Now what? Didn't wanna hurt her feelings. Didn't wanna make her feel terrible. She was pretty and all, in her own way, but he was quite certain he wouldn't have been able to actually give her what she wanted even if he had tried; just wasn't interested in the slightest. Couldn't have kept it up for long. Probably couldn't even have started, come to think. Anyway, to be quite frank, she was old enough to be his mother.

He put his hand on the top of her head, but when she suddenly tried to lean up and kiss him, he reached out, grabbed her wrist to hold her still, and said, as gently as he could while keeping a safe distance, "Don't. Ivan will be angry with me, don't you think?"

All he could think of to say.

Hated that look of hurt on her face, though, but it quickly passed into something darker. And when she pulled away from him, when she scoffed, when she turned her eyes straight ahead, Toris saw a little of Ivan there in her.

He got up then and left her there on the couch, perhaps a bit callously, and went into the kitchen to sit at the table, drink in hand, and pondered. With every bit of information, Toris somehow felt ever the more important, as if by learning all there was to know about Ivan that maybe he could somehow start to emulate him.

Couldn't wait for Ivan to come back. Couldn't wait to go out.

Toris was entranced by Ivan, by everything about him, and he didn't know why, except for perhaps that Ivan scared him so much that being awed by him was just a natural response. Wished, though...

More than anything, he wished that he could have gone back in time, and could have been more confident when Ivan had first brought him home. Wished that he could have impressed Ivan right off. Wished that Ivan would have been disappointed at _his_ cowardice, but that he could have been quickly pleased with Toris.

Couldn't be. He'd blown his chance, crying as he had those first days, and Ivan was the kind of man that you only had one shot at impressing. Too late.

All he could do now was try to find some kind of stable ground, some kind of place, and try to build himself up in Ivan's eyes. Didn't have anyone else. Didn't feel like he belonged anywhere else. Wanted Ivan to look at him and be impressed.

He wore the uniform almost every day, because he liked the way he looked in it.

Time dragged.

A year there, the longest year of his life, and Ivan had pulled him roughly into the office for the first time.

Toris wouldn't ever forget the way it had felt when Ivan had forced him in front of the map on the wall and directed his eyes forward. Homesickness, right off; _Lithuania_ , home, tiny towns circled here and there, and a horrible longing. So long, so long, hadn't seen that country in _so_ long. Had almost forgotten what it looked like. Had forgotten what his house looked like. Hadn't had any contact with his parents in so long, so long, he had been meaning to call them all that time he had been in Poland but he had kept putting it off and off, and then it was too late.

So homesick.

Ivan had grabbed his hand, raised it up, and placed within it a pen.

"Pick one," he had said.

Toris hadn't really heard him at first, staring up at that map and wanting more than anything to burst into tears. The fear of _that_ room kept him still, and kept the pen firm in his fingers.

_Home_.

The sight of it cleared up his head, if only for a little bit, and it hit him hard to remember in that moment that he was in Siberia. Siberia! Had a man ever said such a thing? 'I'm in Siberia.' Had been in Lithuania two years ago, had been home. Why had he left in the first place? Should have stayed home. Shouldn't have left. Shouldn't have wandered off. Shouldn't have let Feliks lead him on.

Feliks.

That name. Feliks.

Ivan raised his hand, and put in on the map.

"Pick one," he said again, with less patience. "I'm burning one tomorrow. Pick which one dies. You've got a uniform now. You have to act like a soldier. Remember what I told you."

Didn't feel like a soldier, suddenly, no matter how much he loved to wear the uniform. Didn't want this. Had just wanted to wear it, was all. Had wanted to look the part without acting it.

Homesickness turned into nausea. Choose people to die? He couldn't. Not there.

That creeping hate and apathy fled suddenly in the light of reality. Could say it, could say it all the time, could say that he hated the world, but when it came down to it, when it was life or death, Toris choked, choked, because never in his life had he ever truly wanted to hurt anybody. Had never wanted to kill anyone. Had never wanted anyone to get hurt because of him or by him.

Couldn't do it.

Ivan looked down at him, from beneath a lofty brow, and as Toris stood there, open-mouthed and dumb, Ivan reached out, grabbed a page of the map, and flipped it up. The country before him was Poland now. More towns, circled.

One of them he recognized.

Ivan might have been smiling; Toris really couldn't remember. Too stunned.

"Or you can pick one of these instead."

Poland. He had been there, he had lived there, that country had almost become home, but someone had ruined it.

Ivan grabbed his hand, and held it above the map, loosely. Ivan's other hand had grabbed his belt, and he was literally being held in place in front of that map, given no room to flee. That soft voice, close by his ear.

"Come on, it's not hard. Hell! Burn the whole fuckin' _country_ , why don't you? Why don't you? Take the damn pen and do it. Do to him what he did to you."

Do to him what he did to you. Those words floated in his ears, and lit something up. Ivan kept on talking, but Toris didn't hear him anymore. Just saw _that_ town. A year. It had been an entire fuckin' year, an entire year that he had been left to suffer without even a word of protest, without even an effort, without a care—

He hadn't really been aware of it when his hand flew up and drew a great, red X over that town. Not even a second of hesitation, he had acted so quickly.

A silence.

Ivan's smile turned into a leer, the hand in his belt released, and the page of the map fluttered down.

"That's that, then."

It hadn't been that bad, at first.

It was later on, when he was alone and when he woke up again, that he buried his face in his hands and cried.

That he realized what a fuckin' coward he was. Do to him what he did to you; not quite. Feliks had sold him out, but hadn't killed people for it. Innocent people dyin' for nothing more than a personal grudge. That group was dead, surely, Ivan had killed them all at the last minute, on the brink, he had heard the gunshots, and that town didn't have a damn thing to do with it, but Toris had picked it anyway, just because the thought of that place made him so angry.

Not their fault.

He cried all night.

For the last time. That was the last time he cried in that house. Didn't even notice, really, that he had stopped crying afterwards. Just couldn't seem to muster that kind of emotion again. Couldn't seem to find the will to care again. It had hurt so much beforehand, so much thinking about it, so much contemplating it, and to be quite honest, that hurt was just too much work. Too tiring. Didn't see the point.

It wasn't a conscious decision. It had just happened, out of nowhere. Just stopped caring. Felt more like something had been extinguished. Felt like someone had walked up and tossed dirt onto the fire.

And he remembered before long why he had left Lithuania. Because he had been no one there, because there had been nothing, nothing, no life at all for him, and he had left to find something better, to make himself better. In a way, he had succeeded. Back home, the twitch of his finger would never had crossed the borders of countries. Out here it could.

Power.

Afterwards, when Ivan looked at him the same way he always had, it started creeping up on Toris that maybe he hadn't done such a bad thing after all. Nobody looked at him differently. Nobody seemed to notice. Never even heard anything about it on the radio or the papers. Like it never happened. Maybe it hadn't. Honestly, at some level, Toris had stopped caring. Easy enough to blame the whole thing on Feliks and call it a day. Feliks took the blame for that town, not _him_. Feliks took the blame for everything. Feliks had put him in this position. Feliks had brought him here, to Siberia, one way or another.

And when Ivan came up to him one day, seeing the rather absent look on his face, and asked, "Is it bothering you?" Toris only shook his head.

Not anymore. Didn't care.

Ivan had smiled then, lifted up his head, and said, "See? I knew you'd get it. It's because you're smarter than most people." Toris glanced up at Ivan, coming back to alertness at the words, and was very nearly feeling something close to elation when Ivan added, "That's why you're getting it so fast. Guys like us don't have to worry about things that other people do. We're smarter than that. That's the great thing about intelligence, isn't it. Getting to see how stupid other people are. Using that. You'll be fine, once you stop worrying about rules. If I didn't think you could do it, I wouldn't have given you that uniform. If I had thought you weren't cut out for it, I would have shot you."

Well. Perhaps the closest he could ever really get to Ivan complimenting him.

Hypnotized and feeling ridiculously close to _happy_ , for the first time since Prague, Toris had only nodded. He could do it, if Ivan thought he could.

And, hell, Ivan was right; he was smarter than most people, and maybe that was why it was easier for him to let go of things so easily. Being smart didn't necessarily mean being kind, or moral. Nothing at all to do with each other, in fact, and most of the worst people in history had been pretty brilliant. Being a bad guy wasn't so unappealing. Gave him that sense of importance and worth and control that he had always been lacking, even though the cost of his humanity had felt so high. It would get easier. Everything always did.

He didn't really know who the hell he was, so he may as well have been whoever Ivan told him to be.

As much as he had started hating the world, more than anything he hated himself.

A wolf.


	47. Part 3 - Darkness Consumes

**Chapter 47**

**Part 3**

**Darkness Consumes**

Life went on.

People came and went in the town. The mine got bigger. New buildings. KGB officers came. The town grew. Plans of a prison.

Ivan was constant.

In some horrible, twisted way, Ivan was everything that Toris had ever wanted; a steady companion, stable ground, constant and unchanging. Always there.

So Toris gave no thought to escape, never had, and did everything Ivan told him to.

Toris was swimming in diamonds, as it was, by then, they all were, and maybe it was only those diamonds that forced Irina still and quiet within the house and kept her from returning to Moscow. She was lonely as could be, yeah, trapped in that house, but even that loneliness wasn't enough to turn a bad person away from having the world beneath them, and she stayed.

As for Toris, he just stayed put because it was where Ivan stayed, and the diamonds were only a perk. The power of Ivan was too addictive to give up.

Paperwork had suddenly become a part of his daily routine, and even though it was clearly boring to Ivan, Toris loved it because it meant that Ivan trusted him to do something. Ivan's secretary; ha. Far from demeaning, he found it somewhat delightful, if that word was an appropriate one to use. Musta been as crazy as Ivan, in some way, to enjoy it.

Irina still stared at them, still trying to figure them out, and it was clear to Toris that she was becoming agitated. Maybe in some way she was jealous, that Ivan had a companion (although in what manner may have yet been a mystery to her) and she did not. Ivan saw her bad mood, saw her stress and anger and restlessness, and came home one day with a cat. Toris watched as she had leapt upon it quite eagerly, Ivan looking a little annoyed but smiling anyway, and for a while, Irina was satisfied and sat still.

A cat; yeah, sure, fine, she loved it, but Toris was pretty sure she had wanted a man.

Ivan wouldn't ever give her that.

Toris only wanted one thing from Ivan, and that was something that Ivan only gave him once in a blue moon :

Attention.

Toris had long since called this place home by the time Ivan finally took him out for the first time. It hadn't been anything important, anything special, not at all, just tagged along when Ivan went on a tour in Odessa. It hadn't been anything _special_ , no, but oh, god, it had been the most monumental moment of Toris' life, when Ivan had stood before him, straightening up his uniform into perfection, and then finally, _finally_ , gave Toris what he wanted as he said, "Alright. You're ready, I think. I'm taking you with me this time."

Elation.

He had been close to bursting the entire train ride there, and Ivan humored him for once, taking his excitement in stride and not lashing out at him. They sat there for ten days and actually talked to each other, held actual conversations. Just him and Ivan.

When he walked amongst them for the first time, it was phenomenal. Meeting real military men for the first time, stuck firmly at Ivan's side. At first, Ivan had actually been a bit tense; Toris could see it in the way he stood, in the way his lips were pursed. Anxious, maybe, at bringing Toris out for the first time and risking something going wrong and exposing them.

But Ivan had trained Toris well, and Toris desired to excel, and his salute had been absolutely impeccable, so much so that tense Ivan had immediately loosened up back into confidence.

Oh, Christ, never had anything in his miserable life felt as _good_ as when Ivan had inclined his head in Toris' direction and said, so easily, "Senior Sergeant Laurinaitis."

Never, not even those long-gone hands. Had never been so exhilarated. His heart should have given out by all rights, for how fast it was pounding.

Ivan had been bolstered by Toris' perfection, and for that, incredibly, when they had walked back to the car Ivan had actually opened the door up for him. For him. Because, for as much as Ivan had motivated Toris, Toris had motivated Ivan. All of Ivan's strange tendencies had suddenly been vindicated. Ivan realized that he truly could get away with anything, even taking a nobody and turning him into a soldier.

When he came back home, _home_ , Toris felt accomplished.

Felt like somebody.

From there, his dependence on Ivan amplified. Ivan took him everywhere, and Toris wouldn't have it any other way. Ivan took Toris everywhere because doing so meant that Ivan was breaking the rules and flaunting his power with no shame in the face of Khrushchev himself. Toris went because he _liked_ being flaunted and liked being Ivan's great sham. Liked the way it made him feel. Liked knowing that, after all these years, after all was said and done, Toris was still getting one over on the Red Army. In one way or another.

Together, they scammed the entire Red Army, and Toris fell into place amongst them under Ivan's confidence. To the Soviet Union, he was Senior Sergeant Laurinaitis. After a while, even Toris started believing it, and Ivan opened car doors for him.

The second year, Ivan gave him a list of phone numbers, and said, "Here are some men. I use them from time to time. They're yours now. Call them. I'm letting you take charge of some things. Don't fuck it up, Toris. I'm trusting you with this."

Trust. An extraordinary word when it came from Ivan's lips.

Instantly, Toris had said, "Yes, sir!"

Oh, god, so excited, he was _so_ excited, so excited that Ivan _trusted_ him with something like this, after so long. He had earned this, had earned it by being perfect, by never faltering at Ivan's side.

_So_ excited, actually, that he had called every number on that list as soon as Ivan had left, to introduce and insert himself into this brutal world. Ivan said the men were his, now, and so Toris made damn sure that they knew that. The first time he had ever asserted dominance over anyone, the first time he had taken charge of anything, and his voice had trembled the entire time he spoke but he had managed to do it all the same.

Jittery. Ha, he had never said something like that in his life :

'Hello?'

'So-and-so?'

'Yeah. Who's this? You're not Ivan.'

'No, I'm not. I'm Toris. _I'm_ your boss now.'

And with, he hung up, hands shaking and smiling breathlessly.

What a thrill.

Must have made a good impression, though, despite the falter in his speech, because a few days later Ivan raised him up from senior sergeant to sergeant major. Hadn't ever been so proud of himself as he was then, going up in rank like that, seeing that new bar on his shoulder. Standing before Ivan like that and having that man validate his hard work. He was somebody. The world under his feet, because Ivan made it so. If ever _that_ man had made him feel bold, then Ivan made him feel like a demi-god. Not a god, only Ivan was that, but he felt damn close.

Soon after that, though, a bump in the road, when Toris had the misfortune to meet the woman that Irina had alluded to. Ivan's scorned betrothed.

Natalia.

Met her completely out of the blue, when Ivan had suddenly decided to get out of the town for a little while.

One morning, Ivan had come into his bedroom, Toris had sat up in bed in both panic and excitement, just at having Ivan come to him, and then Ivan had said, "Get up. Get dressed. Make yourself look nice, and come out to the car."

His heart had been hammering. Breathless with anticipation.

Toris just asked, huskily, "Where are we going?"

Ivan, watching him intently, said, simply, "We're going to have a party."

A party? That was a first. Hadn't seen any life out here at all. Toris would have been lying if he hadn't said he had been looking forward to a party, no matter what kind of party it was or what it would entail. Just wanted to hear Ivan introduce him again, with this new rank.

Ivan had been tense again during the ride, as he had been the first time he had introduced Toris. The first time he was holding this event, the first time establishing Siberia as a place to meet, so he must have been concerned about how it would go over. Toris had just sat quietly beside of him, trying to be excited without irritating Ivan.

The ride to Lensk had been long, but absolutely worth it once Toris had seen the cars piled outside of the hotel.

As it had been the time before, Ivan's anxiety had been for naught; the party was a hit. The Red Army loved it. Toris had loved it, too, meeting all of those men, being in the midst of this power, this lawlessness. Loved being constantly at Ivan's side.

Loved it every single time Ivan said, eagerly, "Sergeant Major Laurinaitis."

If Toris had been anymore puffed out he woulda exploded. Absolutely in love with this party, in love with this excess of power, this new identity. Enthralled.

At least until _she_ had shown up, and then Toris' mood had dampened because Ivan's had.

By god! That look on Ivan's face, when Toris had suddenly looked up to see Ivan standing stark still, eyes glued to something at the door. Toris had followed his gaze, but hadn't known what he was looking at. Had been alarmed, though, by Ivan in that moment. Had never seen that supremely confident man look like that. Rigid as a board, eyes wide as could be, brow low, mouth open, fists clenched at his side, feet and legs braced. The look of absolute and complete _horror_ , and that had scared the hell out of Toris because Ivan wasn't scared of anything.

That look had only intensified when someone was suddenly walking towards them.

Ivan looked like he could have just dropped dead right there from the sheer horror he was obviously feeling, and maybe Toris would have been more frightened if he hadn't looked up and saw a woman.

Just a woman.

She came gliding over to Ivan more than walking, hands clasped quite primly in front of her, sparkling blue dress glimmering in the lights, pale blonde hair long and perfectly straight behind her, and from the first glance, Toris had been a bit taken aback. One of the prettiest women that Toris had ever seen, if _he_ had to offer an opinion, and he was momentarily startled by her. Stupefied, to be perfectly honest. So pretty. Might have been staring at her a bit inappropriately by the time she made it over to them, but he couldn't help it at the time. Might have been red-faced. Felt nervous, suddenly, in her presence. Self-conscious.

She was gorgeous, beautiful. Couldn't have gotten it up for Irina, nah, but damn! If this woman had tried that with Toris it would have been a different story entirely.

By the time she reached them, it was Ivan who was red-faced, but not because he was ogling her like Toris, and his stance had gone from horrified to defensive. Enraged. Ivan suddenly looked like he wanted to set fire to the world, and Toris was beyond thankful that he had never before seen _that_ look. Fury and hatred and everything else. Ivan had expanded out to his full size, which was quite impressive, bristled like a cat, and it was easy for anyone to see how angry he was, suddenly, and Toris couldn't figure out why.

She was just a woman, after all.

But when she finally opened her mouth, completely unfazed by Ivan's dangerous posture, she said, "Ah, there you are, dear. I was looking for you. Well, then! Shall we reschedule the wedding?"

Ivan might have physically shuddered.

Toris understood, but not completely, because she was stunning. He had been dazzled by her, initially, and his first thought had been, 'Why the hell would Ivan break it off with _this_ woman?'

It only took one damn minute for Toris to realize why : she was fuckin' _crazy_.

Crazy.

Ivan finally came out from his stupor and hissed, voice scarcely audible over the ruckus, "What are you doing here?"

Toris could have sworn that Ivan's voice had trembled.

She smiled, then, and answered, "I moved here. Didn't you know? I followed you. I've been behind you the whole time. I was just waiting for the right time to say hello. Did you think you could get rid of me that easily?"

Yikes.

Ivan twitched his fist, but if he had had the urge to strike her, he either bit it down or choked. Something about her eyes, her voice, everything...

Ivan's look of horror was somehow well-founded.

She sent the air around her into winter, even indoors.

Toris' opinion of her shifted quite quickly, and she went from being the most beautiful woman he had ever seen to the scariest one. And then, abruptly, her eyes fell upon Toris, and he was the one set in her burning sights. And, boy, did it ever sting. She looked at him as if he were something unpleasant she had suddenly stepped in. Suddenly, Toris realized that he had side-stepped himself back behind Ivan like a damn dog just to get out from under her scalding stare. Cowering behind him, as it was. Go figure; for once, Ivan wasn't the person he was afraid of.

Ivan, perhaps subconsciously, had lifted his arm just a little up in front of Toris, as if telling him to get back. Ha! As if Ivan needed to tell him. He was already ducking for cover.

Didn't save him, hiding behind Ivan, and her pretty face twisted into a sneer as she tilted her head to hunt him down and crooned rather than said, "Ah, yes. You. I heard about you. I'm Natalia, if you didn't know. What's your name?" She didn't get an answer, but seemed hardly bothered. "So. Where did you come from? Brought you home, did he? You show up and suddenly he moves. What a coincidence. If I didn't know better..." A derisive, rather hateful look. "I'd say he broke our engagement for _you_. If I'd have known you would be here, I would have brought a gun."

Holy shit.

Toris didn't even have time to think about the words or the tone.

The air shifted. Hell unleashed.

Ivan came roaring back to life, and he stalked forward suddenly, snatching out and grabbing her by the arm, wrenching her around so hard that it must have hurt her, but she didn't flinch as Ivan dragged her quite ruthlessly towards the door. Toris followed him, out of habit, and heard Ivan snarl, in a voice that was close to being a scream, "Get out! Out! Get out of here, and don't come back. Don't ever come back, don't ever let me see you around here again! Don't you ever show your face around me again or I'll _shoot_ you! I'll shoot you!"

Ivan's voice was high-pitched, cracking. Absolutely enraged.

The door of the hotel was reached and yanked open. Freezing air.

Ivan threw the woman out, literally, into the abysmal temperature, regardless of whether she had a coat or no, and when he grabbed the handle to shut the door, she stood up tall and straight, oblivious to the cold, and said, firmly, dangerously, "You can't ever get rid of me. Not ever. I'll follow you until the end of the world."

Ivan gripped the door, stance rigid, and he just said, again, "I'll shoot you."

With that, he slammed the door, and he was so angry afterwards, so frustrated, that he had turned around and abruptly punched the wall. Toris was glad, if not surprised, that Ivan hadn't punched _him_.

Those words...

Somehow, someway, Toris had felt proud, had felt a bit exhilarated, hopeful; oh, had Ivan really ditched Natalia because he had suddenly had Toris? Ah. A wonderful thought ( _wonderful_? since when?), and yet one Toris felt was rather unrealistic. If Ivan had wanted him like that, Ivan would have made that known long ago. As Irina had hinted, Ivan would have come into his room.

Ivan certainly had become accustomed to Toris, perhaps attached in his own way if only for his own gain. But not like that. Toris could probably safely say that Ivan had just left that woman because the time had been right and she was crazy. Not because of him.

...kinda wished, though. Kinda hoped. Some part of him had wanted those words to be true. Ivan was an astounding man. A man like that. Couldn't ever have been interested in someone as pitiful as _him_.

The party had gone on, obliviously, and Ivan had started hammering back bottle after bottle of vodka, probably to get rid of that feeling that Natalia had given him.

Natalia was just an unpleasant memory before long, and although it was pretty pitiful, the only thing that Toris truly hadn't liked about that damn party was that, every time there was a pale-haired, pale-eyed, handsome soldier, Ivan would sit there and follow him with his eyes until he was out of sight. Hadn't liked it, because Ivan never looked at him like that. Ivan had never been attracted to him as Irina had assumed.

And Irina had been right about her little brother, as Toris had figured. She would know, after all, and was right; Ivan wasn't exactly normal around women. Polite, certainly, he took their hands and kissed them when being introduced, always smooth, but he didn't cast them a second glance afterwards. What caught Ivan's eye seemed to be handsome blond men.

Well.

Toris was handsome, or so others had said, but Ivan never looked at him twice as much as he did those women. Actually, Ivan didn't look at him at all until nearly one in the morning, when he had finally turned eyes to Toris. By then, they were both feeling the pain of alcohol in a bad way.

Ivan had looked him suddenly, and asked, with a slur, "Do you dance, Toris?"

"A little," he answered, a bit dumbstruck.

Awed. Was Ivan asking him to dance?

As it turned out, yes. Ye, he was.

Ivan had reached out, grabbed Toris by the arm, and dragged him a bit unsteadily to the floor. Toris went willingly, eagerly, because god knew he loved it when Ivan paid him positive attention.

Dancing with Ivan had been a strange but completely satisfying experience. Had never felt anything like that, the hands of a powerful man around his own, the feel of Ivan's broad shoulder beneath his palm. The scent of Ivan's cologne. Didn't matter really how well either of them actually danced; tipsy Toris felt like he had climbed up on top of the castle. Being in close proximity to Ivan made Toris feel like he owned a part of this world, too.

And yet, afterwards, when they staggered back to the table and plopped down, Ivan had still followed other men with his eyes.

That annoying voice let Toris know that Ivan had danced with him because he was drunk and because Ivan no doubt wanted to piss Natalia off even though she wasn't in the room anymore.

Still. The feeling of exhilaration lingered, despite it all.

The last thing Toris remembered that night, before he had passed out dead drunk, was Ivan in the hall of the hotel, ruffled and unkempt, standing in front of an equally flustered blond Lieutenant that he had pinned against the wall, murmuring away in low tones with a slanted, satisfied leer on his face. Ivan's hand, trailing fingers down the Lieutenant's waist. That predatory look he had used once before. The Lieutenant was trapped under Ivan's hypnotizing gaze, as everyone was. Ivan snatched the soldier's chin, thumb falling over his lips, and Ivan kept leaning farther and farther down, and Toris felt the pang of envy.

Toris could only take it for what it was, and collapsed down inside the room so that he wouldn't have to think too much.

Ivan's lack of interest in him wasn't exactly pressing afterwards, though, because after that party, Natalia seemed determined to make Toris' life a living hell. Natalia hated him because she might have blamed him for Ivan dumping her like so much garbage, whether it was true or not, and soon, after the confusion and fear cleared a bit, the feeling was mutual.

Toris wished they had never met.

Phone calls in the middle of the night. Threatening letters mailed to the house. If Toris picked up the phone, in a moment of bravery, she just said, quite calmly, ' _Come down here and visit me_.'

No thank you!

Honestly, Toris had started sleeping with one eye open.

Ivan tried hard to pretend the entire thing had never happened, but Toris could see that she had shaken him up. Must have felt violated in some way, coming all the way into Siberia to escape and being followed like that.

For his part, Toris wasn't going to lie and say that he wasn't angry, because he was. Angry that she had had had the nerve to undermine Ivan like that. In some way, Toris had almost felt as if he were the one to be wronged. He had become dependent on Ivan, had started loving him, and so she had interrupted him as well. As much as Ivan, Toris had wanted her gone. Ivan wanted her gone because she scared him. Toris wanted her gone because he didn't want anyone else near Ivan. Couldn't say why, really.

The calls and letters kept on coming. Toris could have started a collection. The fear, though, had started dulling a bit. She hated him, sure, but she was a good distance away and surely even she knew not to test Ivan by actually coming to this town, so Toris didn't really feel as if she were too dangerous, as long as he didn't have the misfortune to run into her alone.

Maybe, in some way, Ivan had considered that, too; one morning, a rough, sleep-shocked Ivan took Toris' gun within his hands, face pale and exhausted, and loaded it for the first time. A long stare, and Ivan had finally asked, a bit gruffly, "You do know how to shoot, right?"

The feel of hands around his own. A chest in his back. Fingers in his hair. Another life.

He nodded.

With that, Ivan handed the gun back to Toris, and Toris had taken it as gently as if he was taking a priceless artifact. Oh. All he thought of then, as giddy as he was, had been a stupid, 'Wow!' Like a kid.

Toris, no matter why Ivan had done it or what circumstance had brought it about, had only seen that as another notch on his belt. His gun was loaded.

Ivan gave him a set of keys soon after, and Toris had felt as if Siberia had suddenly burst into spring. Those keys. Keys to every door in the house (except for one), keys to the car, keys to the cabinets that held the bullets, keys to the safe where the diamonds lay hidden, keys to everything, everything. Had never felt so important, so powerful, so needed. Keys meant belonging. Ivan had offered him a permanent residence, a home, a place to stay. Ivan and Irina were suddenly family, because Toris truly lived here now.

Home.

Whatever awful things could be said about Natalia, no matter how much Toris wished she'd go away, in a way he was grateful for her because her appearance had pushed Toris up onto the next rung of the ladder.

Toris pretended that Ivan had loaded the gun because Ivan was worried about Toris' safety, that he had loaded the gun so early that morning because he had had a nightmare or something, because Ivan cared about him and wanted him to be safe, but the rational side of Toris that remained was always reminding him that Ivan had loaded the gun because he was afraid of Natalia and wanted an extra set of eyes in the case she decided to kill the both of them.

Yeah, yeah, he knew that, voice of reason, thanks a lot. No need to remind him. He knew. Pretending was nicer, though.

Three years.

Everything had been going right for Toris. And then _he_ had come, and everything shattered beneath Toris' feet.

_He_ came, and ruined everything.

The world Toris had built up suddenly didn't _mean_ anything anymore.

January.

The holiday season in Estonia had gotten a little too intense that year. Somehow, celebrations had turned into protests, and protests had turned into violence. Violence had turned into a small uprising. The Red Army didn't like it. Ivan and Toris had been in Belarus when it had started. Ivan was called up; Toris went with him, and gladly so.

But Ivan did what he wanted, he always did, and had quickly distanced himself from angry students throwing firebombs at police to instead go far behind the lines with a small group of soldiers and into a building where he suspected students were working. He was right, he always was, and Toris didn't know how he did it.

They walked into a room full of books and maps and papers, and there were two men sitting at a table, etching out posters. All they had been doing was making posters. Unfortunately, they were anti-communist posters. When they looked up and saw the Red Army... Oh. No words for it. Toris was sure he felt a pang in his chest.

Years ago, people he had known had had that same look.

Markers clattered to the floor, and eyes widened. Swallowing. Absolute helplessness.

Toris hadn't even bothered to draw his gun. He stood by Ivan, he knew what they looked like, and felt himself somehow above danger. Who would ever dare to try and shoot them? That man hadn't been able to, years ago.

Anyway, they had caught these two off guard.

Ivan had reached out to grab a book up from the nearest table, and Toris had felt so dumbfounded, so dull, so listless, because it was like walking back in time. Every single bit of it, down to the book in Ivan's grasp. Familiar. He had been here before, he was sure of it, not here in Estonia of course, but he had _been_ here. In some other life. In some other time. He had been here.

Softly, Ivan had thumbed through pages and said, "This book is banned."

The two men sat there, pale and covered in sweat despite the cold air, and it was clear from their darting eyes that they were looking for an escape. There was none, never was with Ivan.

Ivan set the book down, stepped forward, ordered them to their feet, and had circled the both of them like a hawk, and Toris had immediately recognized that stalking gait, because it was the same one that he had used in that field in Poland years ago.

This time, though, Ivan was eyeing the both of them, and it was clear to Toris that in this case he would gladly have taken either one of them. They had similar features, for the most part. Both pale and blond and young, although the shorter one was stockier and the taller one had glasses. Either one, but Ivan's eyes had fallen more frequently upon the bespectacled one, because he had blue eyes and the other had brown. Toris knew Ivan's tastes well enough by then.

Kids.

What had they ever thought they could accomplish with those stupid posters? He had been a stupid kid once. They may have been the same age, Toris and these men, but they were kids and somehow he wasn't.

Ivan asked, suddenly, "Names?"

They didn't answer at first. Maybe they didn't speak Russian.

No; the shorter, stronger one had suddenly lifted up his chin defiantly, and said, out of nowhere, "I'm Timo. Now take your fuckin' dogs and get the hell outta here, you Red bastard!"

Ivan's brow raised incredulously. A breathless, open-mouthed smile.

The other, not to be outdone but much more careful about his words, had said, "Eduard. You don't have any authority here."

Oh, dead wrong about _that_. Ivan was a god amongst men. Ivan could do whatever he wanted. And so could the Red Army. Estonia was a state, that was all, and states had to listen to the motherland, no matter how much they hated it.

Timo and Eduard. Idiotic, impulsive, foolish children. They didn't give their last names, for whatever good it would have done them.

Ivan, unfazed by the outburst and rude tones, had just smiled away at them, hands behind his back and posture perfectly straight, before saying, in what could have been amusement, "For that... I think I'll actually let one of you go. For being brave. Who wants to go? I'll let one of you go. I suggest you take the chance. Who goes free?"

A twitch of Ivan's hand, a flutter from so many years ago, and rifles were aimed at the two.

Paling and slumping and the sudden realization of the situation they were really in.

Finality.

On the brink. Decisions had to be made, and quickly.

Toris recognized this game as much as he had recognized that walk. Ivan had tried this before, but it hadn't gone the way he had wanted. Having another go, no doubt, to see if this time would be better.

They meant a lot to each other, obviously, because they didn't even hesitate, each of them opening their mouths. The taller one, Eduard, had just spoken up a little faster.

"He'll go."

Just like that, after a furious look from the other, hell broke loose between them, dumb kids, and they began to argue and fight in Finnish or Estonian over who should go and who should stay. At one point, the shorter one had actually reached out in anger to shove at Eduard's chest, red-faced and absolutely livid.

Toris had just watched them, in fascination, and it brought up awful feelings that he had gotten rid of. Stirrings of emotion for the first time. Seeing them fighting, like that...

That was what he and Feliks should have done. They should have fought like these two did, over which of them would be allowed to carry on with life. Shoulda been, but it hadn't been, and now Feliks' name only came to him from the shadows in rare moments of clarity.

Regret.

Ivan watched them go at it for a while, but it had been obvious that Ivan had favored Eduard a bit more right from the start, and used Eduard's quick trigger to justify his words when he pointed at Timo and said, "He said it first. Get out."

Perhaps the Timo one had been a bit too crass for Ivan's picky taste. Timo may have looked more like a soldier, but Eduard had blue eyes.

And, well, Eduard _had_ spoken first, but Timo or whatever wasn't too keen on the situation, and refused to budge an inch until Ivan had waved an impatient hand forward and had Timo hauled out by the soldiers by force. He went kicking and screaming, shrieking his friend's name, tossed out unceremoniously, and Toris had felt a little clammy by the time Eduard had been standing there alone.

Either one of them would have given their life for the other, and to be perfectly honest Toris didn't know how to feel about that. Because when he thought about it...

"Well," Eduard had finally uttered, voice shaking and terrified, as he tried all the same to stand still and face death bravely, "Now what?"

A good question.

Before Toris knew it, Ivan had marched Eduard out of the building, Eduard walked calmly even though his hands were trembling, his friend had been ushered off to god knew where, and Ivan was damn close to beaming by the time they returned to the main streets. The protests still going on didn't seem to even register to Toris anymore, not the way his eyes were glued to Eduard, and somehow they had walked onward and wound up in a car. Eduard sat still and quiet, not knowing where he was going or what was happening, and Toris still felt dazed by the whole damn situation.

Eduard was brave, and maybe Toris would have told him so if he hadn't realized then that, as much as he had accused Feliks of selling him out, Toris hadn't exactly leapt upon the chance to save Feliks, either. When Ivan had pointed at him, Toris had frozen up as much as Feliks had.

Maybe, had it been the other way around, Toris would have sold Feliks out the same.

If he were truly honest, he knew he would have, he _knew_ it; he and Feliks had never been brave enough to fight like those two had, not either one of them, and either one of them would have thrown the other onto the tracks to save themselves. Toris would have done the same, and seeing Eduard and Timo had made him realize it, but still he stubbornly clung to the anger, to the hate, because it was easier to blame Feliks for the entire ordeal than it was to wonder about his own bravery.

The train ride was a haze, and Toris just stared at Eduard the entire ten days as if he had fallen from a tree right on top of him. Ivan sat there, staring at Eduard so fervently that Toris was surprised poor Eduard hadn't burst into flames. Eduard must have been terrified, being stared at like that by two crazy men he didn't know.

And then they were home, and Toris felt his territory tread upon by an intruder. Had been so dazed, but sure as hell woke up with a snap the very second that Eduard walked through that door and into his house. His house. His land. This was his, all his, and he didn't want someone else here.

Didn't want Eduard here.

Eduard had looked so confused, so lost, so helpless, when he had walked inside the house for the first time, and Toris would have pitied him, would have sympathized with him, would have empathized, would have said to him, 'I know how you feel', if he hadn't been so absolutely violated. Felt violated. Disturbed. Rustled. Felt like someone had broken into his home.

Eduard looked so lost, and Toris didn't even bother to try to comfort him.

From there, everything went wrong for Toris. Eduard had ruined everything.

The thing that had surprised Toris the most, honestly, was that awful stab of jealousy. Fury. That Ivan brought someone else here. That after that day, Ivan seemed impressed by every little thing Eduard did. That Ivan seemed enthralled, in a way, just by Eduard _being_.

Toris had sat in his room those first few weeks, hardly more than a trembling mess, and Eduard came out after the third day, and sat down quietly at the table when Ivan told him to do so. Toris watched, irritably, as Ivan rested his chin on a fist and smiled away at cool Eduard, who didn't meet his gaze for long but gave efforts at polite pleasantries with both Ivan and Irina. As if Eduard were meeting his girlfriend's parents for the first time.

Hated that guy right off.

Toris had been jealous, and furiously so. Eduard made Ivan smile, by doing nothing at all. And smile, really smile. Actual human smiles. When Ivan _smiled_ , his canines poked out in a gawky, rather charming manner. The first time Toris had ever seen Ivan smile like that, in these past three years. Hadn't even known Ivan possessed such a smile.

Never smiled like that at _Toris_. But then, Ivan never had to manhandle Eduard to get him to do what he wanted, either, because Eduard quite bravely did it on his own.

Eduard stood straight and still when Ivan was before him, not trembling and very alert, and Toris found himself often hanging around corners and watching their interactions from afar.

Ivan leaning over Eduard, that pretty smile on his face, crooning softly to Eduard and ducking down to catch his gaze every time Eduard looked away, like a teenager, brushing errant fingers in Eduard's hair and down his neck and jostling him rather playfully in an effort to make Eduard smile. Eduard, who had to have been absolutely terrified beneath that cool front, did smile, but palely and rather weakly. Fake as could be, but Ivan seemed to accept it anyway.

Soothing words, all the time.

"—don't be scared! This is your home, now, you know. So don't be scared. I'm not gonna hurt you, I promise. You're so handsome, I'm sure you knew that already—"

If Ivan had ever done those things to him, those adoring things, Toris woulda smiled for real.

Didn't _get_ it. Ivan didn't even know this man, didn't know a damn thing about him except his name and that he was good-looking.

Beyond the rage, Toris felt a creeping fear.

Couldn't ever get rid of that agitation, no matter how hard he tried. Hated Ivan, but he had become far too dependent on him now. Hated him and loved him and worshiped him and _needed_ him. Needed Ivan. The thought of being replaced was terrifying. Nothing had ever scared him as much as the thought of being _replaced_.

Eduard was so quiet, so alert, always aware of his surroundings. Memorizing the house silently, memorizing everything. Calculating. He paid attention to everything, no matter how insignificant. Eduard watched Ivan, watched Irina, watched Toris, hell, he even watched the fuckin' cat, watched everything, every door, every window, every hall, every habit. Toris could see it, could see the way Eduard was quite obviously plotting ways to get the hell out of here, and Ivan could see it too and never left Eduard alone for it.

Eduard was always calm. Passive.

Ivan seemed to be helplessly enamored with Eduard, even if Ivan knew that Eduard was anticipating a great escape.

But days turned into weeks, and Eduard had been still. No choice, really. He was in the middle of nowhere in winter. Soon, Ivan took Eduard up to his bedroom, maybe because he didn't quite trust Eduard to not try to steal the car and run.

Eduard hadn't spoken to Toris once, not in the entire weeks he had been there, and in hindsight Toris couldn't blame him much because he probably wouldn't wanna talk to a guy that was constantly glaring and sneering at him, either. Didn't know what else to do. He was threatened by Eduard, so Toris tried to intimidate him.

Ivan tried his best to soothe and spoil Eduard in the hopes of making him less jittery, in getting him to settle.

Maybe it worked.

Toris had stood back, arms crossed and leaning against the wall, when Ivan had finally given Eduard a uniform after only a month. Watching. Waiting. Holding his breath. Didn't know why, but the thought of Ivan giving Eduard the same rank as him was absolutely mortifying. Felt like he would have died. Would have been humiliated. In a way, he would have felt demeaned. He'd worked so damn hard to rank up, so hard to impress Ivan and earn that uniform, and if Eduard got that rank right off, felt like he woulda _died_.

For once in his miserable life, though, something seemed to work out for him.

Ivan had lifted up his chin, thoughtfully, gave a 'hm', and then said, "I think Sergeant is good for you."

Jittery with relief, Toris had relaxed against the wall, and suppressed his sigh.

That relief didn't last long.

Eduard may not have ranked up, but it was somehow worse when he was actually in the uniform, because Ivan was on him in a second, practically swooning. Seeing Ivan, seeing that terrifying man that Toris relied on, seeing that man like that, seeing him looking _happy_ , and seeing him looking that way because of someone else...

Oh, _god_. Felt sick. Hadn't ever felt so horrible as he did then, watching Ivan gloss Eduard into perfection.

Shoulda been him that Ivan adored. He had done everything Ivan had wanted. His only condolence was the sergeant badge; stung a little less that Eduard was a lower rank than he was, had started lower than Toris had, even though Ivan seemed to adore him already. Maybe, as much as Eduard's appearance appealed to Ivan, Ivan could see that Eduard wasn't exactly cut out for the army. A guy like that. Eduard was great as a student, great as a poster-maker, great as a soft-spoken activist, but he wasn't a soldier. Too kind and gentle, from the look of him. Nice guy. Kind and calm and soft. Nothing about Eduard screamed military except his bravery.

Hell, Eduard looked like he shoulda been holding a notepad and listening to people crying on a couch.

Even insecure, moody Toris looked far more at home in the uniform than Eduard did, but, for it all, Eduard certainly tried. Stood up straight and held his chin high, even though he couldn't really get his eyes to be stern behind his glasses. Looked the part from afar, anyway, as long as no one tried to engage him. Toris wondered why Ivan didn't just make Eduard an army doctor instead, but he supposed it could have been inconvenient should an emergency arise somewhere and the Red Army wanted Eduard to do some on-field surgery or somethin'. A bit of explaining, had Eduard shrugged a shoulder and said, 'I don't know how to do that.'

Hurt, though, to see Ivan training Eduard. Hated it. Didn't know why, but Toris hated it.

Wanted Eduard _gone_ , and yesterday.

Hated that, where Ivan had slapped Toris' cheek every time he screwed up a salute, Ivan took Eduard's arm, gently, and straightened it out each time with loose, smoothing fingers and encouraging words. Hated the way Ivan whispered to Eduard. The way Ivan's fingers always lingered there upon him.

Every day, Toris hated Eduard a little more.

Somehow, Toris felt that maybe Irina had disliked Eduard, too, but not because of the same reason that Toris did. Irina seemed to be irritated at the entire situation, and sometimes Toris could see that she was looking at Eduard with suspicion and concern. As if she had been thinking to herself that her already 'strange' brother was starting to get stranger, that maybe moving out here wouldn't stop Ivan from getting into trouble after all.

As if Irina had been thinking, 'How many does he need?'

Toris had been inclined to agree. Toris should have been all that Ivan needed.

Two months, two damn months that Eduard had been there, and Ivan had apparently fallen quite hard for him. Ivan was happy, if anyone could believe it.

The most frightening man on the planet, and here he was, showing up in the house with a handful of the first spring flowers and pushing them gently into Eduard's hands. The most ruthless general in the entire Red Army, and here he was, taking Eduard's hand and helping him up from chairs and opening doors. The most dangerous man in Siberia, standing in the kitchen, Eduard pressed up against him, back to the counter, and Ivan's hands resting on Eduard's waist, a nose pressed into Eduard's hair and murmuring away. The most notorious soldier to ever wear a Red star, reaching out and grabbing a startled Eduard to lift him clean into the air in random bouts of excitement.

The wolf became a dog around Eduard. Toris was pretty sure it was time to take that dog out back.

And he wondered if Ivan even cared that every time he laid hands upon Eduard, even though Eduard was still and calm, that the pulse in his neck started hammering. He wondered if Ivan cared that Eduard's pupils dilated in fear. He wondered if Ivan cared that Eduard physically paled. Maybe, in that daze, Ivan just didn't notice.

Eduard was everything that Ivan had apparently wanted. Brave and pale and blond. In some way, Toris knew that Eduard was even quite exotic to Ivan, because he wasn't a Slav. Had that Nordic look about him, Eduard, in his cheeks and jaw line. His nose was a bit upturned at the tip, and Ivan just couldn't take his eyes off of him.

Three months in, Ivan had said to Toris, randomly, "We're going to have another party."

Toris had been excited, until Ivan's next words.

Ivan turned to Toris, then, and said, "He's so handsome, isn't he? I'd like to go show him off."

He.

A pang.

Stupid. Irrational. Pointless. But Toris couldn't really deny that it _hurt_ , that Ivan said such things about Eduard. Ivan hadn't wanted Toris, sure, but Toris had been doing the best he could. Toris had settled in. Toris had been here for three years, and in all that time had done everything Ivan had asked him to do. Eduard had only been there for three _months_.

Toris hated Eduard.

The ball exacerbated that hatred tenfold.

Started off before they had even left Mirny, because Ivan had turned to Toris and said, "You can drive, can't you?"

Toris, glossed and pristine as he always was, dressed to impress, had been _offended_. Absolutely offended. Appalled. Drive? Him? He had never had to drive, never, Ivan had always had a driver. Toris' place was in the backseat with Ivan. Beneath him, driving.

But there was no driver in the car waiting, nothing, and of course Ivan didn't drive, but Toris didn't want to either.

So, he had said, "I don't know how."

A half-truth, but it hadn't worked the way he wanted; Ivan had just curled his lip, furrowed his brow, and snipped, "Well get in there and learn, then. We're leaving."

Oh, how that hurt. Hurt. Sitting in the driver's seat felt more like Toris had suddenly fallen down a cliff. Ivan had opened the car door for him not so long ago, and now he was driving like a manservant.

The whole way to Lensk, Ivan and Eduard sat in the backseat speaking softly as Toris had to get his unofficial license and fast, but driving was a lot harder when Toris spent every second glaring at Eduard in the rearview mirror, trying damn hard to kill him with his eyes. That was his seat. Eduard had no right, no right. That had always been his seat, next to Ivan.

Hate.

When they arrived, Toris felt none of that happiness that he had before.

As before, Natalia showed up, despite Ivan's threat to shoot her if she did, but she must have known that Ivan would freeze up, must have known that she had some kind of power over Ivan, because she came and Ivan didn't shoot her.

She sure did lay into Eduard though, as much as she could, before Ivan threw her out again.

So furious at the sight of Eduard and Toris, in fact, that she had reached out to the nearest table and grabbed up a knife, and from the look on her face it was quite obvious that she intended to get rid of Eduard before he even began.

Yeah, join the club.

This time, Ivan's fury had been possessive, protective; where Toris had cowered behind Ivan, Eduard had just stood there in confusion in the face of Natalia's wrath, and it had been Ivan that had reached out, grabbed Eduard by the arm and yanked him behind him protectively before Natalia could do him in. After that, Ivan nearly broke Natalia's wrist to get the knife away from her, and did actually break one of her fingers.

All the same, she was tossed out, and Ivan fussed over Eduard like a damn woman, brushing him down and making sure he was uninjured, eyes wide and actually looking truly _concerned_. As if the thought of anything happening to Eduard would have been the worst thing that could have ever happened to Ivan.

Toris coulda died from the anger. Jealousy. Wished that Natalia would have taken Eduard out as she had intended.

The party carried on, despite Toris' awful, foul mood.

Toris spent the entire night drinking and plotting ways to get rid of Eduard. Ha; maybe he and Natalia could come up with something together. Wouldn't that be a ride.

Toris was left to his own devices as Ivan introduced Eduard with an eagerness that was a thousand times brighter than when he had been introducing Toris. Eduard, for his part, looked damn petrified, a rabbit tossed in with a bunch of foxes, and Toris could see him sweating even from a distance. Could see how hard he was breathing.

No pity.

Somehow, in those first months it had never actually occurred to Toris that Eduard was rather blameless in the matter. Ivan did what he did, and the world just had to go along with it.

And then the party had gone from bad to worse when Ivan had stared playing cards, tipsy and laughing, Eduard tucked into his side as he always was. Just a rather normal game, at first, but Ivan hadn't exactly been on a winning streak and was already out of money. Toris wouldn't have cared if Ivan hadn't needed something to bet.

The other officers goaded Ivan relentlessly, and one of them suggested, perhaps not seriously, "Why don't'cha bet _him_?"

A glance at Eduard.

Ivan's eyes followed, a strange look, and a second of silence. For a moment, Toris had seen a burst of anger on Ivan's face. A crinkle of his brow and a clench of his jaw, the race of his pulse. Jealousy. The look of a man that had seen another man suddenly ogling his wife. Ah, so Ivan was the jealous type, was he? Toris wouldn't know. The look fade quickly enough, though, and Ivan looked thoughtfully back down at his cards.

Ivan loved Eduard, but Ivan _hated_ losing.

Eduard stood there silently at Ivan's side, but Toris could see from his posture and his clenched jaw and the pulse in his neck that he was damn terrified. His hands were shaking behind him. In the end, though, Eduard didn't need to be scared, because red-faced Ivan had finally looked over, sneered, and waved his hand in the air.

"Come here, Toris."

_Oh_ —

Ivan turned back to the table, cards in hand, and suddenly jerked his thumb over in Toris' direction.

"Nah. I'm bettin' _him_."

Suddenly, all eyes were upon Toris, and he kept composure well, not because he was brave but because he had been so startled. So frozen. So shocked. Ice. Absolutely and completely frozen. Hurt. Such hurt. And Toris could only blame it, somehow, on Eduard.

All of this was Eduard's fault.

Ivan had almost _liked_ him, he was sure of it, until Eduard had come.

"—I'm in!"

Nothing had ever been more damn humiliating, but Toris bit his tongue, stood straight as an arrow, and clenched his hands behind his back, staring above the table as if unfazed. Felt so sick. Oh, Ivan, why would he have done that, Toris loved him _so_ much, Toris woulda done anything for Ivan, but not this, Ivan was supposed to be his in some way, because Toris obviously belonged to Ivan—

How had this come about?

Eduard. That was how. Everything had been alright until Eduard.

Cards were thrown down. Toris' forehead shimmered with sweat. Clammy. Those minutes felt like eternity. More so because Ivan hadn't been having much luck before.

A rough bark of triumph, and when Toris finally managed to inhale and look down, he had never in his life been so grateful for _anything_ as he was to see that the noise of victory had come from Ivan.

Thank god, oh, thank god. Ivan had won.

Toris liked to pretend that Ivan had only bet him because he knew he had a winning hand, but Toris knew Ivan just well enough to know that that was almost certainly wishful thinking. Ivan had gotten lucky, was all. Toris was spared being led up into a room.

His fists had clenched automatically.

When Toris finally glanced over, Eduard's eyes were locked upon him, and the horror there upon his face was easy to see. Such horror. Eduard looked as if he had suddenly witnessed someone being murdered. Toris felt the way Eduard looked, but he hated Eduard, so instead Toris forced himself to stop shaking, lifted his chin, loosened his fists, and sneered, as if none of this had effected him in any way. Eduard's look only grew more horrified at Toris' expression.

Good.

Eduard looked away soon after, and couldn't even meet Toris' eyes for the rest of the night, and that was for the best. Because Toris only felt more agitated with Eduard as the night crept on.

Ivan didn't ask Toris to dance that time, but he did drag someone else onto the floor.

Fuckin' Eduard, go fuckin' figure, oh, _god_ , he was _so_ mad, so mad, couldn't remember the last time he had been this _angry_. Seeing Ivan's bright smile, seeing Ivan's hand on Eduard's waist, seeing Ivan's great hand around Eduard's, just seeing that happiness around Ivan.

No words.

Toris drank as hard and fast as he could, slapping away several offered hands in the meanwhile, trying his damn best to knock himself out drunk before he wound up popping a gasket or something. It worked; he passed out somewhere in the lounge and was glad, because when he was trudging off his hangover the next morning, he staggered up to the hotel room, fumbled the key in the lock, and walked in to an awful scene.

Ivan collapsed on top of Eduard, pinning him there on the bed, and although Ivan was fast asleep, Eduard wasn't. Toris caught his eye, initially, but Eduard was quick to look away, in what might have been humiliation. Toris wasn't too sympathetic; after all, they were both clothed, so Eduard should have counted himself lucky that Ivan had been too drunk to do what he had obviously intended to do.

Toris was glad he hadn't had to see Ivan throwing Eduard onto the bed and crawling atop of him all the same. Woulda made him sick.

Toris stood there for a second, and then lifted up his chin and carried about his business. Didn't say a word, and Eduard had just breathed through his mouth and stared at the ceiling, glasses gone off to god only knew where. Looked for all the world as if he were about to burst into tears.

Toris didn't try to help him. Left him there, under Ivan, and went back downstairs to brood.

Hours later, the little lovebirds came down. About time. That time though, cool, impassable Eduard had been looking at the ground as he walked. Looked tired. Exhausted. Or maybe he was just so embarrassed that he couldn't look up to meet anyone's gaze. Ivan, in that high of adoration, either didn't notice or didn't care, and dragged Eduard around to say goodbye.

On the way back home, as Toris had been reduced to driving yet again, he found himself grinding his teeth together as Ivan all but swooned over Eduard in the back seat, his arm around Eduard's shoulders and his head low as he looked at Eduard and said, "You did so well! I knew you would."

Fuckin' bastard, that goddamn, miserable _bastard_ —

His grip on the wheel had been so tight that Toris had very nearly run into the ditch, and some part of him wanted to crash the damn car into a tree on purpose so that Ivan would shut the fuck up about Eduard.

Fuck Eduard.

This anger was going to kill him, he knew it, he could feel his heart palpitating.

Eduard, who didn't deserve such praise, just glanced at Ivan and said, as always, "Thanks." His voice had been as pale as his skin. Trembling. Still caught up in the terror of the night, no doubt.

Didn't stupid Eduard know that Toris would have killed to be in his spot?

Toris might have chipped a tooth somewhere down the line, grinding them as he was. His blood-pressure was through the roof, could feel the stress clenching up his chest ever more. The whole ride back, Ivan's arm stayed there above Eduard's shoulders, their sides pressed together, and Toris was fairly certain that this had been the worst two days of his entire life, even worse than _that_ day, even worse than that room.

The longest ride in history.

Nothing hurt more than being ignored, than being suddenly cast aside because Ivan had found something new. Being replaced. Ah, hell, who was he kidding? Couldn't replace something that had never existed in the first place. Ivan had never looked at him like that. Never. And yet, Eduard had stolen something from Toris all the same.

Every day after that was worse than the last.

It stung, when Ivan passed by Eduard in the hall one day not long after Lensk, and stopped to croon, lowly, "You have such pretty eyes, did you know?"

Eduard smiled, calmly and thinly, and accepted the compliment without hesitation.

Toris had furrowed his brow, and wondered why Ivan had never said something nice like that to him. Even if Ivan wasn't attracted to him, would it have been so hard to toss out nice words every now and again?

At the table in the mornings, Ivan often walked by and reached out to pass fingers through Eduard's pale hair. Eduard never flinched like Toris did, and kept his shoulders and chin low in compliance. Toris, scorned as he was, had assumed by then that Eduard had bowed. Hard not to; Eduard didn't look around all the time anymore. Didn't seem to be constantly plotting. Didn't seem to be looking for escape routes anymore.

Eduard had been so _calm_. Toris was anything but.

Life seemed _horrible_ , suddenly. Every little bit of gentleness, every bit of interest, every bit of care that Ivan had ever given him had suddenly been stripped, had been erased, and Ivan didn't even bother to look at him anymore. As if Toris had become the most boring thing in the world, because Ivan had found something better. As if Ivan had realized how insignificant and pitiful Toris really was now that there was someone to compare him to.

Eduard was here, and Ivan didn't open the car door for him anymore.

Toris looked for opportunities to show up Eduard, looked for ways to impress Ivan.

And Toris got a chance, somewhat, later on in the year, when Ivan decided it was time to destroy another town. This time, though, rather than just having Toris mark up a map, he seemed to want someone to come along for the ride. A long hard stare at Eduard, but in the end it was Toris to whom Ivan had inclined his head. Thank god! It was about time. Toris went, and Eduard stayed behind with Irina.

When Toris was in Hungary, though, when that town was on fire, when everything was burning and guns were going off all around, Toris had almost wished for once that Ivan had just chosen Eduard instead.

The first time he had ever heard people _scream_ like that. Christ, the sound of it. The smell of it.

Toris had wanted to impress Ivan, but for the first time found himself in the middle of a war zone, and he had frozen up. Had been wide-eyed. Had been open-mouthed. Pale and sweating. Had been lost. Dazed. Didn't even know what to do. What to think.

The ground was red.

Smoke.

Someone ran out from a burning house, stumbling along, and Toris had been shocked and appalled when the man came up to Toris, Toris of all people, dressed as he was in that uniform, and fell down before him, reaching out and grabbing a hold of his pants, screeching and begging.

Toris stood there, stupidly, and just stared down at him. Couldn't move. Wanted to, wanted to do something, but didn't know what. Dumbly, stupidly, irrationally, he had almost knelt down to grab the man by the shoulders. How stupid that would have been. Everyone was dying all around. This place was doomed.

This man, too.

Finally, a movement; Ivan, waving another soldier over, irritably. The soldier was quick to take aim, and shot the man right there at Toris' feet. The hand gripping his pants went lax. Silence. When the soldier walked off, Ivan reached out, grabbed Toris' collar, and had given him a firm shake, hissing, "What! What's the matter? You wanted this, didn't you? Do something for _once_."

Do something.

That was right; that was why he had wanted to come, to do something, to show that Toris could do anything better than Eduard. Those words, that determination woke him up.

A slow look around, and eventually it was Ivan who led him, who shoved him over to a line of soldiers that had corralled fleeing townsfolk and lined them up. So familiar, looked so familiar, he swore it, but Toris walked over anyway, Toris let Ivan push him over, let Ivan shove him in line with the soldiers and let his higher rank take charge.

The soldiers were suddenly waiting for Toris' command. Ivan hung back.

In the line of people, hands in the air, were men. Women. A little girl, clinging to her mother's skirt. Crying.

As if in a dream, Toris felt his arm drifting languidly into the sky. It hung above.

Couldn't breathe. His chest hurt. Ivan was waiting, but Toris' chest _hurt_ , and suddenly his arm was heavy. Immobility. Toris' hand froze up in the air; a whisper of times gone by. Memories. Shadows. How horrified he had been once upon time, Ivan's hand in the air, lives hanging so threateningly upon the twitch of his fingers. Other men waiting below. Other hands in the air, and other soldiers waiting for a command.

And now, now, suddenly it was Toris' hand in the air, Toris' not Ivan's, it was Toris who was the one who would have to give the order, it was Toris who was playing god, who was deciding destinies.

Hesitation. Felt like the world had stopped spinning.

_—stop, stop, you can't just_ shoot _them!_

Who was he? He wasn't Ivan. It was his hand in the air.

Quiet. It had gotten so quiet. Everything had frozen still. Time itself had stopped. The little girl had buried her face into her mother's side. Trying to burrow away.

Even their crying seemed to have been stifled.

I _can't go—_

That voice.

A surge of anger. Fury. He felt his face contort with rage.

Ashes floated down gently from above. Warm air.

And then Toris flung down his hand.

Gunshots. Gasps and cries.

Toris had given the order, and he stood there for years, staring down at the result. No movement. The little girl was as quiet as the rest. Blood pounding in his ears. Ringing. Lightheadedness. The fury had passed. Listlessness remained. Dizziness. He looked to the side; Ivan was watching him. Eternity, and finally, Ivan nodded, once, and then walked away.

Toris stood there, and looked at them.

Horror.

Had nightmares for weeks after that.

But Ivan had been somewhat impressed, just a little, and that had been worth that blood, worth that horror. Destruction and death were worth it, as long as Ivan looked at him. Toris had given that order, had snuffed out innocent people, and all for a nod. Just for a nod. Toris returned to Siberia a murderer, but one that had earned a little of Ivan's trust.

Eduard had been shown up, fair and square, but it had been Eduard that Ivan had been complimenting when they had gotten back home.

"You look even more handsome after an absence."

Toris just rolled his eyes and went to bed in exhaustion.

Nightmares and doors.

Gunshots.


	48. Part 4 - The Final Lock

**Chapter 48**

**Part 4**

**The Final Lock**

The kid came soon after that.

A warm day in August. Ivan went to a tiny town in Latvia, and Toris had been proud, pitiful as it was, that Ivan had taken him again, even though he had nearly blown it last time.

After a while, the nightmares had gone away, and he had forgotten about the little girl.

In Latvia was the chance once and for all to make Ivan look at him.

Bolstered, Toris took charge for the first time, and tried to make real use of his uniform. He'd done a thousand things from home, he'd been out in the field a few times, he'd been on tour, but this was his first time truly in charge. His first chance to show Ivan what he could _really_ do. He used it. He sent the men where he wanted them, he walked amongst them, and he gave the order to fire the houses. He did everything, for the first time, and this town had been _his_.

Ivan's hands were clean of this town; Toris' were red.

Ivan watched him the whole while, not really smiling, but not frowning, either. Kept a keen eye on Toris, a teacher observing his pupil at work for the first time, and made notes. Toris did his damn best, and knew that he was excelling. Knew it. When everything was burning and the ground was soaked with blood, Ivan looked over at him, arms clasped behind his back, and lifted his chin. A long, quiet stare.

Toris waited in breathless anticipation, heart hammering and feeling so stupidly, disgustingly proud. He'd done a good job. The town was dead.

Finally, Ivan tilted his head and said, simply, "Good job."

Pathetic, he knew it, but he had still started breathing through his mouth as the adrenaline of ecstasy lit him up. Good job. One of the only times Ivan would ever say that to him.

And it was worth it.

A sense of belonging. Stability. Eduard was still beneath him, no matter how much Ivan adored him. He was the superior officer yet. He was here; Eduard was not. The guns didn't shock him anymore.

Good job.

And then, suddenly, in the middle of the carnage and chaos and screaming, a child had walked out of the smoke and came up to Toris, slowly and quietly. Not a little girl—a little boy. Hadn't expected that. Toris had been startled by the mere sight of him, just because he was alone and coming over. Ivan had glanced back at Toris, had seen his look of shock and turned to follow his eyes, and when he saw, he started walking over.

A child. How strange.

Even though the village was on fire, even though his hair was matted with ash and soot, even though his clothes were flecked with blood, the child still looked up at approaching Ivan, and seemed fascinated. Just a kid. Couldn't have been more than seven or eight, and yet still he hadn't been scared of them. Toris had been absolutely speechless at the way he had just walked up to them.

How had he gotten away from the soldiers? Lucky.

Ivan looked right back at him, head tilted and looking a little amused, and shortly after he had turned to Toris with a quirked brow.

"Who's this kid?"

Toris could only shrug a shoulder and say, "I don't know. He came out when the guns were goin' off."

Ivan and the kid stared at each other for a long time, and Toris felt a little bit of apprehension. Ivan would probably shoot him. Everyone else was dead. No survivors, ever. One on one, though, was still a bit hard for Toris to stomach. Oh, Christ, please, please, as long as Ivan didn't make _him_ shoot the kid, he hadn't shot anyone yet, not by his own hand, wasn't ready for that yet. Wasn't ready to pull the trigger.

But Ivan didn't shoot the kid, surprisingly, and thank _god_ , he didn't make Toris do it either, and instead turned to leave. Guess the kid's bravery had saved him, as it sometimes did those who crossed Ivan's path; Eduard sat at home, after all, and his mouthy friend had been spared.

When they turned and walked off, there were footsteps behind them. They looked over their shoulders at the same time, to see the kid following them, for some godawful reason, and he didn't really seem to be aware that everything was burning around him, and every time Ivan took a step, the kid took one, too. Ivan started smiling, and finally spoke to the child.

"What are you doing?"

A shrug.

"Following you."

"Why?"

"'Cause I don't have anywhere else to go."

And, well, that had seemed like a good enough answer, and Ivan turned all the way around, hands in his pockets and chin low. Amused, at the kid's audacity.

"What? You wanna come with me? You can't."

"Why not?"

"Because I said so."

"Why?"

"Because I'm a soldier. I'm not a baby-sitter. You can't come. I've got work to do."

The kid, face determined, took another step.

"My house is burning. I want to come. I can be a soldier, too. Let me go with you."

"Why?"

"I like your uniform."

Ivan turned to Toris, they shared a look, and the next thing Toris knew, Raivis was in the car, and Ivan was laughing. Raivis was another accident, but one Ivan enjoyed, if only because Raivis stoked his ego. Toris wondered if Ivan had only taken Raivis to keep increasingly restless Irina content. First he had given her a cat, and now he was going to give her a child. Maybe one of these days, one day, Ivan actually would let her have a man.

When they got home, Irina actually squealed aloud at the sight of Raivis, showing actual excitement that she had never shown with Toris or Eduard or even the cat, and was on him like a spider, coddling him and smoothing his hair and straightening his clothes. Raivis smiled away at her, enjoying the attention. Come to think, he hadn't stopped smiling since Ivan had put him in the car. Didn't he remember the guns and the blood? Must not have cared much.

Raivis had always been a little off. Well. He found the right place to live, then, because everyone in this house was pretty fuckin' crazy.

Eduard had hung back, gazing at Toris without actually making eye contact with him. Toris was puffed, proud, self-satisfied.

Ivan eyed Eduard for a second, that smile creeping onto his face, but he had looked at Toris then, still in such a good mood, and said, "Come with me."

A burst of ego, and Toris might have sneered at Eduard then, as if Eduard would actually be jealous of him. He had done a good job, he knew he had, and so Toris felt himself walking straight and firm and bristling with excitement as he followed Ivan down the hall. Didn't flinch this time, didn't panic, didn't feel any fear.

He'd done a good job.

And, sure enough, when they walked into the office, Ivan stood straight before him, Toris fell into the stance of attention, and Ivan said, "Well. You felt good out there, didn't you?"

Toris nodded his head. Wouldn't deny it. Being in charge had felt great. Hadn't even really been able to focus on the screams, not with Ivan staring at him.

Ivan was smiling, suddenly, when he added, "See? It's not so hard, is it? When you stop worrying about everything, it's not hard. I expect you to be more like that from now on. I don't ever want to see you shaking in that uniform again."

Toris held his chin up high, still feeling so delirious with elation, and said, stiffly, "Yes, sir!"

Ivan's smile, although not that bright, charming one that Eduard got, was still pretty dazzling, considering that Ivan really only ever looked at him with annoyance.

"Good to hear, Junior Lieutenant."

Absolute and utter exhilaration. A puff of his chest, and, immediately, Toris found himself saluting without thought, twitching and fidgeting and barely able to keep from smiling. Ivan just quirked up his brow, looking pleased and bolstered, and Toris wished that Eduard would have been there to see his promotion.

Right after, Ivan changed his uniform. Junior lieutenant. Rising up, ever more. He _deserved_ that uniform, deserved that rank. He'd done everything Ivan wanted. He could get higher, too, he could make it up higher if Ivan kept trusting him to these tasks. Maybe one day he could even make colonel general. What a wonderful thought.

One day.

Didn't take long for the excitement of his promotion to wear off. Just a few days, actually, because it was still obvious afterwards that Toris found himself fourth in line for Ivan's attention, although first in line by uniform. No matter how high his rank, come to think, Ivan just kept on focusing his energy and time on Eduard, who seemed paler and more tired than ever.

Raivis and Irina settled in, quickly, and Ivan continued to shower Eduard with never-ending affection. Toris was off to the side, cast out and apart from them. Five was too many. They had been fine with three, just fine. It had been better with three. It had been better when Ivan had only had Toris. Too many.

In the back of his mind still, stubbornly, he hated Eduard for it, for everything. For this isolation. Kept on blaming him, no matter how many holes there were in his theories. _He_ was the first one Ivan had brought. He should have been Ivan's favorite. He had been the first. He was a higher rank. Should have been superior, and yet when Eduard was in the room, Toris completely disappeared from Ivan's mind.

And that drove Toris fuckin' crazy. Wished Eduard would drop dead somewhere.

He hated when Ivan reached out and put a hand on Eduard's cheek. He hated it when Ivan stopped in his tracks and watched Eduard when he passed as if hypnotized. He hated when Ivan had nothing but open ears for Eduard whenever he did speak. He hated that Ivan couldn't stop fuckin' staring at Eduard, every time they were within sight of each other. He hated that Ivan exalted Eduard.

He hated _Eduard_.

Hated him so much, was so angry, in fact, that Toris picked up the phone one night, and called those men for the first time of his own volition. Didn't know why; he was just so angry, so damn angry, that he had wanted to hurt someone. Couldn't hurt Eduard, because Ivan woulda _killed_ him, but he knew who he could hurt, if it was still possible.

Hadn't said Feliks' name aloud in years. Had felt strange, that time, giving it to those men and asking them to check. Just to check, was all. Just wanted to know if the bastard was alive or not, or if he had struck down somewhere, troublemaker that he was. Ivan had murdered those men, he knew it, he knew he had, even though Ivan had said Feliks or Toris going would save them, but he didn't really think that Ivan had had his men kill Feliks, if only because it seemed more like Ivan would have left Feliks alive to mourn the loss of everything than to die mercifully, so maybe he was still alive somewhere.

The word came back a few days later.

Son of a bitch was still alive. Yeah, figured.

Toris had sat there for days, rolling a pen back and forth on the desk as his mind wandered. What to do. Felt like hurting someone. Feliks was as good as anyone. Actually, of all the people he had hurt in his years here, Feliks might have been the only one that had ever wronged him. Might have been the only one he had ever actually had reason to hurt.

Still felt so torn about actually doing it, and he didn't know why. A line would be crossed, in some way, if he struck out at Feliks. Everyone he had hurt so far had been Ivan's order, that was all. He hadn't actually done anything on his own. Hadn't done anything that Ivan hadn't told him to do.

But Ivan hadn't told him to look for Feliks.

Toris was torn initially.

Hesitant. Uncertain. Reluctant. The vague memory of that beautiful smile. The last remnants of a normal conscience struggled against the tide of Ivan's lawless world. Toris was torn.

At least until one day, Ivan reached out with a gentle hand, lifted up Eduard's chin, gave him a long look over, and then smiled as he leaned down to kiss Eduard upon the tip of his nose. And when he pulled back, Ivan said, earnestly, "I'm proud of you. You've done so well." A lower voice, lower words, as Ivan whispered into Eduard's ear, but Toris had heard it all the same.

"I love you."

Fury. Absolute wrath incarnate. Fuckin' Eduard hadn't even done anything yet, not a damn thing. Nothing, nothing, and Toris had flung down his hand that time, had set those fires, had done everything. What was there to be so proud of? Eduard hadn't done anything worthy of Ivan's attention. Nothing.

Toris found himself stalking around later on in circles, huffing air in through his mouth, and then, finally, he picked up the phone. Anger led his actions, as it so often had out here, when he gave those men an order.

So angry.

Just a short sentence, and yet it had such grander consequences :

"Get rid of him."

Simple words.

But the line had been crossed for him. He had killed, not because he had to, not because he had been asked to, but simply because he had wanted to. Somehow, striking down Feliks had made Toris feel _better_. Better. The shittiest, most awful thing he had ever thought, he knew it, was sure of it, but he had felt it all the same. No point in denying it. Killing the man that had once loved him had made him feel a little better.

Feliks. That smile. That beautiful smile. Feliks had loved the world. Feliks had loved life. Toris took life away from Feliks, because Feliks just hadn't been brave enough to let Toris keep his. Cowards, the both of them.

And still...

The good feeling faded, as it always did, and, as always, Toris felt worse afterwards.

One night, couldn't remember how long Eduard had been there, Toris had sat dejected in the foyer, drinking, and Eduard had come in. Everyone else had been asleep. A weight on the couch beside him. When Toris looked over and saw Eduard there, all he could do was sneer. _Hated_ Eduard. Surprised he had the nerve to approach Toris at all, since Toris had been making it very clear.

Eduard sat there for a while, anxiously, looked over at him, and finally spoke. The first time they had ever actually sat there side by side and spoken, because Ivan had always been hovering over Eduard and Toris had just been too bitter to try.

"Say, you're Toris, right? You don't speak a lot, huh? I wanted to talk to you before but I was kinda scared, to be honest."

Somehow, those words had put Toris a bit off guard, despite himself. Maybe it had just felt good to hear Eduard say that Toris frightened him. Made him feel powerful, even though he wasn't.

Eduard sat there, shifting his weight, and then said, "You're... I don't know, man. You're crazy. I could never just stand there and do the things you do. You've gotta be the bravest guy I ever met. Or the craziest."

Brave? Had never felt brave, not once, not in his entire life. How had Eduard come to such a strange conclusion? Toris had just stared at Eduard, not even knowing what to say or do, and Eduard seemed happy to just speak without him.

"Oh, man, I wish I could be like you. I swear, I'm so— Christ, oh, I'm so scared, I'm so fuckin' scared. I wish I could be like you, I really do."

Silence. Toris was utterly dumbfounded. Flabbergasted. Couldn't even speak then had he wanted to, and just sat there, bottle clutched in his hand and staring at Eduard with the same expression he had had on the very first day they had met.

Eduard looked up, met Toris' eyes, and Toris could see there, for the first time, how truly exhausted Eduard looked. How sad. How scared. Toris had always seen Eduard as so calm and cool and collected, but as he sat there that time, all Toris saw was a scared kid. A nice guy that had done nothing to deserve being where he was.

...hey, _he_ had been that once upon a time, hadn't he?

Try as he might to hold onto that hate and anger, something about Eduard then had made Toris' bristles fall. Just a little.

A long, heavy silence, and then Eduard had gestured to the bottle in Toris' hand, asking thickly and somewhat shakily, as if ready to cry, "Say, room for one more?"

Feeling somewhat dreamlike, Toris silently handed Eduard the bottle. Nearly put the whole damn thing back in one long chug, no stranger to liquor, and it occurred to Toris that he was sitting on the couch drinking with his self-appointed mortal enemy. Someway, somehow, that had made him laugh.

Laugh. When was the last time he had laughed?

Eduard stared at him for a while, but, hell, Eduard apparently already thought he was a psycho, so Toris just kept on laughing. Afterwards, Toris felt better, better, and that time the feeling didn't disappear immediately after, because Eduard had just stared at from beneath a high brow and had actually cracked a little smile. A real one, not the terrified ones he gave Ivan.

Eduard was just a kid, in the wrong place at the wrong time, and that wasn't really his fault, anymore than it had been Toris'. Ah, hell, now his head hurt. So long hating Eduard, so long blaming him, and it was so strange to suddenly allow himself the thought that maybe, just maybe, it wasn't Eduard's fault.

Had never been Eduard's fault.

Suddenly, good god, Eduard reached out, plopped his hand heavily down on Toris' shoulder, leaned in, and said, quite seriously, "I take it back. You're the craziest son of a bitch I've ever met."

And Toris had looked over, beyond the tipsiness, and had felt himself reach up, put his hand over Eduard's with a clap, and responded, "Thank you."

A short stare between them, and then somehow, they were giggling together. Eduard was right, after all—Toris was crazy. Laughing with that man that he had hated more than anything. How strange.

Eduard opened his mouth again, asking, "Where are you from?"

That was how it all began, and the next thing Toris knew, he and Eduard were speaking, chatting, having a conversation, and they sat there all night, drinking together, until dawn. Just speaking.

Eduard had actually sat down next to him of his own volition, Eduard had spoken to him because he wanted to, and that was a first out here. No one out here had ever really been nice to him, aside from Irina, but somehow her affection always seemed a bit...off. Sometimes a little unwanted. Eduard was the first one who ever actually bothered to try and get to know him. The first one to see him there and smile at him, really smile.

At the first light of morning, it was as if something in Toris had calmed.

The hatred for Eduard dissipated. In its place, Toris had started feeling something like affection. Friendship. Go figure. Had hated that man so much, but when Eduard smiled at him, suddenly there was a little light in this dim world. Ivan never gave him the time of day, and Toris might have been desperate for affection. Eduard gave it to him.

When Eduard smiled for the first time, it had occurred to Toris that there was something as beautiful in Eduard's smile as there had been in Feliks'. That same love of life, perhaps, or that same desire to be in the world. Kindness. Eduard's smile was different than Feliks', but just as mesmerizing. Eduard was so nice. So _nice_. How hadn't he seen that before? So long blaming Eduard that he hadn't really noticed all of the wonderful qualities about him. Oh, hated it when Ivan fawned over Eduard, absolutely, but it wasn't really Eduard's fault. Maybe it was Toris'. Maybe it was Ivan's. But it wasn't Eduard's. Eduard had never had control over anything.

And Eduard smiled at him, even after Toris had set fire to that town. Didn't think anyone would ever be able to smile at him again.

When Eduard saw him now, he sent Toris that smile, and always said, so casually, "Hey, Toris."

Like normal guys. Out here, in this place, in these circumstances, that alone was something spectacular.

At last, Toris had someone to _talk_ to.

Didn't take much of that smile, much of that camaraderie, before Toris had started thinking of Eduard as a brother of sorts, a companion, and was always happy to see him whenever he walked in. Never thought it would happen, but suddenly Eduard was the best thing in the house, and Toris was damn glad to have him there.

Even though, sometimes, there were still bursts of jealousy.

One morning, Eduard had been quiet, subdued, and it hadn't taken Toris long to see why. Eduard's neck was bruised, his arms were bruised, his lip was bruised, and somehow Toris knew right off exactly what had happened.

Still, he asked, perhaps thoughtlessly, "You alright?"

What had surprised Toris was the envy he actually felt.

But when Eduard had turned his head away, when Eduard had spoken, his voice had been so thick and strangled that Toris knew he was on the verge of crying.

A low, weak, "I'm fine."

Eduard didn't speak up again for a while, and the jealousy had faded into something alarmingly close to guilt. Eduard hadn't had a choice about where he was, who he was with, and when Ivan came down later and put his hands on Eduard's shoulders, pressing his lips into Eduard's hair, Toris had seen the split-second crumple of his face, the falling of his mask, the threat of bursting into tears, before the calm came back.

Eduard had called Toris brave, but maybe it had been Eduard all along who had been the brave one.

For his part, Toris tried his best to engage Eduard and keep him smiling, if only to take his mind from other things. The first time since _then_ that Toris had allowed someone else's well-being to take priority over his own. Eduard, Toris thought, had loved him in return.

Suddenly, Eduard had been with them for a year and a half, a point by which Toris had long since cracked. Ivan had been confident that Eduard had, too. Toris agreed. Eduard was just Ivan's by then, Toris had accepted it, and Ivan was so casual and doting with his affection that it literally felt like Ivan had just gotten married and brought home his new wife. Eduard played his part with grace and dignity, and no one looked up at all when Ivan wrapped his arms around Eduard from behind and rested his chin on Eduard's shoulder; not even Eduard. It was just that normal. Eduard had cracked.

Not so.

Toris hadn't seen it, hadn't even guessed.

Lesosibirsk.

It hadn't been anything exciting; just a meeting, but it was the first time that Ivan had taken Eduard outside apart from the ball.

Ivan had been bristling with excitement, just at having Eduard by his side, and even though Toris had been jealous, it hadn't stung so much because Eduard was his friend. The jealousy was so much easier to deal with now, it really was. Eduard was his friend, and for that Toris kept a good eye on him. Kept him safe.

And everything was _alright_ , everything was fine, everything was going great, until Eduard decided to skip town.

Smart son of a bitch, that was certain, smart enough to outwit Ivan when no one else had been able to. Fucker had been fakin' the whole damn time. Eduard hadn't ever been lost in the mist, but he had been damn good at acting like he had been. Had never been broken, at least not beyond repair, but had played the part well. No one could ever lie to Ivan, because Ivan's razor-sharp mind would never miss it, and yet somehow Eduard had fooled him. Maybe, like so much else, Ivan had been so in love that he had just been unable to see it.

A goddamn movie star, to fool Ivan as he had.

Oh well—whatever. The point was, he ditched, and left Toris high and dry. Didn't even come to him and ask if Toris wanted to run with him. Maybe Eduard hadn't trusted him enough, not truly. Maybe Eduard had decided that Toris just wasn't worth the risk.

He had thought that they were friends.

Eduard ran, and didn't take Toris with him. And even though Toris would have refused, even though Toris had never even tried to run once, even though Toris probably would have eventually returned to Ivan had he ever actually run, even if Toris loved Ivan too much to run, it didn't matter. Somehow, despite it all, Toris felt betrayed. Eduard should have asked him, should have tried to engage him, should have made it known to Toris. Toris wouldn't have run, but was infuriated all the same that Eduard hadn't tried to take him.

Didn't make sense, wasn't coherent, but Toris was furious all the same.

Should have _asked_. Friends? Wrong. Eduard ran, and left Toris behind.

Ivan was smart. Eduard had just been a little smarter. One of Ivan's greatest vanities was in his perfection. Ivan didn't make mistakes, of course not, not Ivan, and so it was only natural that the incident with Eduard was entirely Toris' fault.

His fault. Always his fault.

They had drank together so many times before. Sat together so many nights. Passed out together so many times. How could he have anticipated that Eduard had been setting up everything from the very moment he had arrived? Every word, every gesture, every casual act, had been Eduard's master plan, something that even brilliant Ivan hadn't been able to envision. From the very moment Eduard had stepped into that house, every second had been spent building up to that escape. Befriending Toris had just been part of it.

Toris took the fall.

It hadn't been a day out of the ordinary, it really hadn't. The meeting had gone well, Eduard had stood calmly by Ivan's side, unmoving and perfectly attentive, Toris had been in his element, and Ivan stayed behind with other generals to drink. Toris and Eduard, left to their own devices, had gone up to the hotel room with bottles of vodka they took from the bar.

Had started out so normally.

Toris and Eduard had drank so often together that Toris hadn't thought anything about it, hadn't even noticed that Eduard had been drinking far less than he usually did. Hadn't noticed that Eduard was letting him polish off the two bottles and hadn't drank even half of one. Chattering, as they always did. When Eduard was with him, Toris felt _happy_ , and it was the best thing he had going on in his life at the moment, so he never even thought to question Eduard, because he trusted him, perhaps blindly so.

It had been getting late. After midnight.

Eduard had suddenly said to him, offhandedly, "Why don't you go grab more booze?"

Giddy and bleary and absolutely ready to chug more vodka, Toris had pushed off the bed, slurring, "Alright!"

He made it to the door after a struggle, found the doorknob, and was on his way out when Eduard stopped him.

"Toris."

Toris hung in the frame, stumbling as he was, but managed to look back all the same.

"Yeah?"

Eduard was staring at him, quite intensely. An odd silence. Hesitation. A strange expression, and a stranger voice.

"Are we friends, Toris?"

Toris smiled, fighting for balance, and answered, "Yeah, man, we're friends."

Another stare. Eduard's eyes had been so strange, but Toris had been too drunk to fully comprehend it.

The way Eduard had been looking at him.

Finally Eduard said, "If... If it had been somewhere else, you know, some other time, I think me and you coulda been best friends. I think we could have really been brothers, you know?"

Blearily, Toris kept on smiling at Eduard, feeling warm and happy and content, and he only said, "Yeah, I think so, too. But it's alright. This is good enough for me. I can call you brother still, if ya want."

A halfhearted, sad smile. A low whisper.

"I'd like that. I'm glad I met you."

Ah, that felt damn good to hear. Toris smiled, and meant to carry on.

One more interruption.

"Toris."

Again, he looked back.

But this time, Eduard opened his mouth, and choked, instead smiling and saying quickly, "Never mind."

With that, Toris staggered out and made his slow, unsteady way down the stairs and back towards the bar. Took him forever to get down those two flights without breaking his neck. Didn't make it to the bar though, before he was interrupted in the hall. Something warm and heavy on his shoulder. And when Toris looked over, drunk as he was, he saw that it was Ivan's hand on his shoulder.

Toris smiled, dumbly, and drunk Ivan was actually smiling, too, and then he leaned in and said, clumsily, "Go get Eduard. I wanna introduce him to these guys, proper, you know. Go get him."

Too drunk to be jealous that time, Toris had immediately said, "Alright," and made his wobbly way back to the stairs.

How he made it back up without dying he couldn't say, but that was the least of his worries when he made it back to the room. The damn door was locked, and it took Toris longer than he would have liked to admit to finally fumble that key out of his pocket and into the lock.

Had he locked the door? Couldn't remember. He turned it. Pushed the door open. The first thing he noticed was how cold the room was. Freezing. Windy.

...windy?

It took him a second to focus, a second to gather himself, a second to understand. Took him a second to realize that the room was cold because the window was open. Took him a second to realize that the room was _empty_.

Empty.

Intoxication was rudely interrupted.

Just like that, the realization cut through his drunkenness, cut through his dizziness, and Toris' eyes widened as he darted into the room, looking in the bathroom and under the beds and even in the fuckin' cabinet drawers, looked everywhere, everywhere. Went back to the door and looked down either side of the hall, went back to the bathroom and pulled back the shower curtain, looked under the beds again. Nothing. Empty.

Eduard was gone, and the window was open.

He stumbled to the window, poked his head out and looked down below. Nothing. Oh _god_ —

He stood there in front of the window for ages, wide-eyed and frozen, hands shaking so bad that they were banging into the windowpane, breath caught up in his throat, mind whirring and body stuck, and then there was a pang of nausea. And he might have thrown up then if something hadn't caught his attention.

A sound behind.

He had stood there in that horrified, numb stupor for so long that Ivan got tired of waiting and had come up the stairs behind him to fetch Eduard himself, and he was grabbing the doorframe for support. Turning around, and seeing Ivan _waiting_... Waiting. Had never felt such outright horror.

Ivan's bleary eyes and tipsy smile, as he asked, "Where is he? Tell him to hurry up."

Horror, such horror. Ivan _loved_ Eduard.

The scariest moment of Toris' life, when he had to finally raise his arms helplessly at his sides and say, weakly, in a high voice he didn't recognize, "He's... He's _gone_."

Absolute terror.

The look of incomprehension on Ivan's face. Ivan looking over Toris' shoulder, brow crinkled in confusion. The silence.

Ivan's rather deadly whisper, then.

"What do you mean?"

Toris couldn't breathe anymore. Cold.

Another helpless lift of his arms, a slow shake of his head, as Toris tried not to tremble in fear as he said again, "He's gone. I don't know where he's at. He was here before, I swear he was. He was just here. He's gone."

Ivan looked...

Well. Toris hadn't ever really been able to figure out that look on Ivan's face as he had stomped forward, shoving Toris aside, and stepped into the room. Might have been disbelief. Might have been a bit of panic. Maybe hurt. Who could ever have said.

All Toris could do was watch as Ivan stood there in that empty room, the wind blowing in from the window and rustling his hair and coat, and Toris couldn't even really _think_ he was so scared. So afraid.

Ivan's fists had already clenched.

When Ivan turned around after a good minute, hell was etched there upon his face, and if Ivan hadn't been so set on running downstairs to go after Eduard, Toris was pretty sure that he might have died then. The need to catch Eduard saved Toris from Ivan's wrath, at least for a little while.

Toris didn't follow Ivan as he bolted down the stairs and outside; just stood there, dumbly, and waited. Waited for Ivan to realize that Eduard was gone. That there was no way to catch up to him by now, because Eduard had no doubt stolen the car. Waited for Ivan's rage to break through. Waited for Ivan to come back. Waited for the consequences of his stupidity.

Eduard was gone. Had left Toris alone, to suffer Ivan's anger. Eduard had to have known that running would put Toris in danger, would put him in Ivan's warpath, and he hadn't given a damn.

Through the open window, Toris could hear Ivan's enraged shrieking and cursing from below. Had never heard such a horrifying sound. Terror. Ivan's wrath had burnt up Siberia.

When Ivan came tromping back up the stairs, Toris tried his best to brace himself, for all the good it did. No amount of bracing could have saved him from that furious Ivan. And god, Toris had never had such a beating in his entire fuckin' life, not ever. Hadn't ever been beaten to within an inch of his life as he was that night. Ivan couldn't seem to _stop_.

Ivan had been wronged.

Kinda funny, as Toris thought about it from his hospital bed days later—Ivan had loved Eduard, as much as a man like Ivan could truly 'love'. Eduard's run had, laughably, hurt Ivan's feelings. Had hurt him not only because Eduard had been Ivan's apparently chosen life-partner, but also hurt his pride. Ivan's excessive ego had taken a hit. His masculinity and dominance had been laughed at, in a sense, by Eduard.

Juliet wasn't exactly supposed to jump down from the balcony and hit the ground runnin'.

Eduard was gone.

Toris was still in shock, still unable to comprehend, unable to fully accept the magnitude of the betrayal.

Toris was in the hospital for two weeks, but at least he was alive—thanks to the alcohol, the doctors had said. Loosened him up so much that he didn't incur as much damage or some such. Toris didn't care about that. Just wanted to see Ivan. Ivan didn't come to see him, not once, and yet every time the door opened Toris had expected to see him all the same. Ivan had put him there, and still Toris wanted to see him like he had never wanted anything. Wanted Ivan.

Ivan never came.

Eduard was gone. His friend. Brother.

A lie.

Would have cried, maybe, if he hadn't been so angry. If he hadn't been so disillusioned. So stupid. How could he have ever thought that they were really friends? As it always was, Toris had been too dumb to see what someone had really wanted from him. In the end, only Ivan ever truly stuck by him. Two weeks without Ivan. Suffocating.

One day, though, flowers came. It was pathetic and pitiful, but Toris hoped to god all the same that they were from Ivan. Oh, wanted them to be from Ivan. Wanted that more than anything else, because Eduard had left him behind like dirt and now Ivan was truly all he had left. Please be from Ivan, oh, _please_ —

They weren't. They were yellow. Funeral flowers. And the note just said, 'Next time.' Somehow, Toris knew right off who they were from. That woman; Natalia. Oh, how she _hated_ him.

Ivan never came, and it was Irina, in the end, who came out to Lesosibirsk to pick busted Toris up and have him driven back home. Beneath the pain, beneath the longing, there was a steadily growing pool of brand-new hate. Fury. Eduard had left him.

Eduard was gone. No party that year. Ivan brooded for months.

Hurt and dejected; of that, Toris had no doubt. Ivan had put so much effort into Eduard, so much energy, so much love, so to have Eduard run out like that must have cut him. Ivan had been so love-struck, and now was love-sick. Toris had hoped, at first, that Eduard being gone would mean that sulky Ivan turned all of that energy to him.

But he never did.

He had come home from the hospital that first day, arm around Irina's shoulder as she helped him hobble along, and when they had come in, Toris had been so _excited_ to see Ivan, so excited at being number one again, so excited to know that Ivan would have no choice but to appreciate him more in the light of Eduard's betrayal. So excited.

But Ivan had only glanced up at him from the kitchen table, circles under his eyes and looking like hell, and hadn't even uttered a word. Bleary-eyed. Pale. Drunk. Clothes wrinkled and hair a mess. Hadn't shaved since. Looked like he'd been crying. Looked absolutely dazed and devastated. Ivan had fallen so hard and fast for Eduard. For men here, Russian men, Slavic men, love was everything, even beyond power. Losing it like _that_ was probably too much for Ivan to even comprehend.

Well. Ivan needed time, that was all.

Toris clung to shards of hope. Toris kept on _hoping_ that Eduard's absence would mean that Ivan would start paying him more attention. That things would go back to the way they were before Eduard, when Ivan had liked him. When Ivan had opened the car door for him. Every day that Toris woke up, he hoped that Ivan was going to look at him and see something to compliment. That Ivan would see something worthwhile.

Hardly.

Maybe Ivan relied on him more after that, let him take on more difficult tasks, let him take charge of military business. Let Toris into his world all the more. Ivan let him become his right-hand man. But Ivan never loved him, and never gave Toris what he really wanted.

Ivan silently mourned Eduard for a surprisingly long time afterwards, but as far as Toris was concerned, it was good riddance; being 'brothers' only caused him trouble. Every time he trusted someone, they betrayed him in the end. Every time he cared about someone, it ended up being for naught. They turned on him.

Not Ivan. Ivan was always there, even if it wasn't with kind words. And for that, Toris loved him.

Months after it all, Eduard's absence emboldened Toris, and he found his pace. He used the anger of that second backstabbing to become more distant with his conscience. Damn thing had only ever caused him trouble anyway. He hadn't batted an eye when he had killed directly for the first time. He'd killed before, but only over the phone or through soldiers. Doing it himself had been different, but he had been able to cling to that dark side enough to brush it off without too much effort, and had been alarmingly calm when he had gone into a bathroom and scrubbed flecks of blood from his hands.

Oh, but the _nightmares_ he'd had afterwards. He was afraid to look at himself in the mirror. Murderer now, a true one.

But maybe he wouldn't have been if Eduard had stayed.

Five years; Toris had lost track of how many murders he had set into motion. Too many to count, and somehow it had become boring. Killing was just like any other hobby, and you could only do it so many times before it got old. Even when he did it directly, even when he pulled the trigger himself, even when he had killed a woman, a _woman_ , it just didn't make him feel much. Only Ivan could do that, and yet Ivan denied him any undue attention.

Ivan held the first party since Eduard's departure, trying to get back into the swing of life apparently, and it didn't hurt any less than it ever had when Toris saw Ivan hunting down handsome officers that were ranks beneath him so that he could corral them in the halls. (No Natalia that year—Ivan had put armed soldiers at the door of her house.)

Toris could only watch Ivan hunting, and drink. One young Sergeant (blond, of course) that had found himself in Ivan's clutches, not quite against his will from the suppressed smile on his drunken face, had stood perfectly at attention as Ivan had pressed up against him and crooned, 'Sergeant, do you know who I am?'

A rough, domineering hand upon the back of the soldier's neck, and he answered, quickly, 'Yes, sir.'

'Who am I?'

'My superior, sir.'

Ivan's self-satisfied smile, and a low, husky, 'Good answer. And do you have to do what your superior tells you?'

'Yes, sir.'

Ivan's smile had grown, the first time he had smiled even a little since Eduard, the Sergeant never broke attention as Ivan grabbed his hand and forced it downwards, and Toris had turned away. Couldn't stand it. As always, Toris just went into the hotel room alone and slept it off. Maybe if he weren't so bitter, he would have looked for someone for himself, but he couldn't stand the sight of Ivan touching others, for a reason he couldn't even put his finger on.

So, Toris tried ever harder, and became ruthless in his efforts to impress. In the meanwhile, Toris tried hard to pretend that Eduard had never existed at all.

Six years; an officer had gotten on Ivan's bad side while on a tour in Hungary. Toris had been the one to walk up to him in the hall of the hotel and shoot him before Ivan could, because he wanted Ivan to be impressed. It worked, on some level; Ivan had raised him up from junior lieutenant to lieutenant. That had been a good damn day, seeing that new badge on his shoulder. Still waiting for Ivan to compliment him, though.

Ivan still left him alone at the ball in favor of blonds that year.

Seven years; the paperwork had gotten dull, but Toris kept on, and to amuse himself had started engaging in activities on the side. Started using those diamonds. Started bribing his own men and creating his own little world, even if it was only ever for fun. He used them for whimsy, nothing more. Used them around neighboring towns. Used them sometimes to irritate Natalia, in little ways; cutting off her electricity when she called the house too much, having someone snip the wires in her car, things like that. He even found new men, ones Ivan didn't associate with, and made them his. It was comforting in a way to know that, somewhere out there, he had men that were loyal only to him, and not Ivan. He didn't tell Ivan everything, because Ivan didn't tell him everything. Fair was fair. Never did anything that would have gotten him into trouble, though, should Ivan have found out.

That year, feeling restless and agitated and somewhat stifled, certainly far beyond unappreciated, Toris tried to keep himself in Ivan's sights during the ball. No go; as always, no matter how hard he tried, Ivan always brushed him aside with irritated looks and gestures, as if Toris were somehow as unwelcome a sight as Natalia.

Frustration started rising.

Ivan felt it, felt his insolence, and started becoming aggressive towards Toris, despite the increasing power he let Toris have. Hit him, for the first time since Eduard, and did so frequently after that. Toris took it, because it was better than being ignored, and silently seethed.

Eight years; he had started taking diamonds for granted, because there were just so many of them. Ivan's position had inserted him into the trade, and they had accumulated so many that eventually the notion of diamonds became somewhat droll. Toris went to Moscow with Ivan, held his head up high and sneered at people, because he knew that at any point he could have just tossed out a diamond and gotten any of them to do anything he wanted. He had started planning out how he was going to rule his own piece of the world.

That year at the ball, Toris pitched a fit in the hotel room, so angry at who knew what, and he tore the room apart before marching back out into the ruckus and looking for someone beneath his rank that he could bully around. Found one, alright, found a rookie Private and hustled him rather roughly all over the floor. Maybe Toris did it to get Ivan's attention, but that didn't work. Ivan watched him, a bit curiously, but didn't really seem interested in what Toris did. Even when Toris grabbed the Private by the arm and started dragging him towards the stairwell, Ivan just didn't seem to care.

Bust.

Toris went from feeling gratitude to Ivan for his identity to hating him for it.

Ivan never gave him thanks for the countless things Toris did. Never said 'good job'.

Nine years; Raivis had started withdrawing himself from Toris and speaking to him mostly only during 'family' gatherings. Toris, far from hurt, was glad in a way, because Raivis had always annoyed him. Hadn't seen the harm, then, of letting Raivis drift from him. Just a kid, although certainly Toris had been leery of him in some way just because of the circumstances that had led Raivis to them in the first place.

By then, he hated those fuckin' balls. Hated them. Hated going. Didn't wanna go anymore, but didn't have a choice.

The parties aside, Toris had been doing alright. Creating his own world calmed him, kept him from really snapping, and he was steadily coming down from that cloud of excess stress. He had started calming.

Everything had been going alright. Everything had been fine.

Toris had been fine.

Had started really getting into himself. Had accepted everything as it was. Had accepted that Ivan wouldn't ever love him as he had Eduard, but that Ivan needed him, in some way. Accepted that Ivan wouldn't ever stop in the hall to compliment him, but that Ivan enjoyed his presence at some level, if only because Toris made his life easier. Maybe it said more about him than Ivan that he had been fine.

Toris had been just fine.

Ten years.

Then Ludwig came.

Like Eduard before him, Ludwig gave the right answer. As they said, the third time was the charm.

Toris had hated Ludwig as much as he had hated Eduard. Another competitor. Another unwelcome guest. Another replacement.

And then, as before, even though he should have known better, even though he should have learned his lesson, even though by all rights Toris should have never cared about anyone ever again, he found himself falling for Ludwig, just as he had Eduard. Found himself thinking 'brother'. Friend. Should have known better, but he had done it all the same.

Toris said he gave up on the world, hated it, but then the world came to him, in Eduard, in Ludwig, and he woke up again and started caring.

Toris had started _caring_ about Ludwig. But so had Ivan.

Ivan had approached Ludwig so tentatively at first, content to attach himself to Ludwig's physical appearance alone, still stinging from Eduard's departure. Ivan had let Toris train Ludwig, because Ivan didn't want to get too attached right off, not like he had with Eduard. Ivan had been burned by Eduard, and Ivan had learned his lesson about falling in love too quickly. Just sat there and studied that German dictionary, and yet didn't lift his hand. Stayed so distant from Ludwig, so detached, and let Toris have Ludwig.

No need.

Ludwig had appealed to Ivan in every sense, beyond his pale hair and pale eyes, beyond his bravery, beyond his handsome face.

Ludwig had been weak to a man like Ivan. Ivan pinpointed that weakness like a wolf, and had wasted no time acting upon it, because Ivan was somehow able to predict that Ludwig would bend, despite his aggression and his constant attempts to flee. Ludwig's brashness might have given away his latent frailty.

Eduard had always been calm. Ludwig had fought.

How strange; Ludwig was what Ivan had been searching for all along. Darkness and submission all in one. If Ivan had loved Eduard, then maybe there weren't any words that could ever possibly describe what Ivan felt for Ludwig. Ludwig, poor, sweet, confused Ludwig, had cracked so much faster than anyone could have anticipated. Ludwig had been born vulnerable to someone like Ivan.

Eduard had had confidence in himself and a strong sense of person. Ludwig had neither. Ludwig's mind wasn't as strong as his body, and now, somehow, someway, here Toris sat.

With Gilbert, in a tiny house in the middle of nowhere.

And that was that.

Ten years.

Ten years, uttered aloud in a matter of hours.

Gilbert stared up at the ceiling, and every once in a while, he looked over at Toris. Sometimes, he opened his mouth as if to speak, and faltered before looking quickly away.

Toris didn't try to speak anymore. Didn't feel like it, but not because of moroseness.

Calm.

For the first time in forever, he felt something close to calm, as if somehow spilling all of those years of mist had cleared his head a little. Someone had sat there and actually listened to him. No one ever had. Ludwig might have, once, if Toris had given him the chance. Gilbert hadn't said a word in those hours he had spoken. Maybe he shouldn't have told Gilbert. Probably had only scared him more, and at the same time it probably only made him want to get Ludwig _out_ more. Probably shouldn't have told him, because sometimes being in the dark was better.

Toris didn't sleep that night. Thinking.

Looking back on it like that, really thinking about it, Toris could see now that if Ivan had been attracted to him, if Ivan had treated him the way he treated Eduard and Ludwig, then Toris would have turned out just like Ludwig. If Ivan had loved him, he would have gladly given the world for that man. Had, already, even though Ivan hadn't loved him. He'd have given anything for Ivan.

Even then, even as he had sat there and relayed that tale to Gilbert, even as he had thought about it, Toris had felt himself fanning out proudly, because, no matter how much Ivan loved Ludwig, Toris had been first.

Toris would always be first, whether Ivan liked it or not. The first to see Ivan before he had been a general, the first to wear a uniform, the first to be in that room, the first to look at that map, the first to lead soldiers. The first to _know_ Ivan. He was the only person on this earth that truly knew just about everything about that man. Toris would always be first.

Feeling that pride, then, he knew that it would have been so easy for him to be just like Ludwig. Couldn't even imagine how strong that feeling would have been if Ivan had reciprocated. Good god! Woulda set the world on _fire_ for Ivan. Anything for that man, anything at all. Would have been just like Ludwig. Would have been exactly the same, if Ivan had loved him the way he had loved Ivan. May even have been worse than Ludwig.

He'd lead Gilbert to Ludwig now, because, had even one little circumstance been different, Ludwig was everything Toris would have been. Ludwig wouldn't turn, but maybe it wouldn't matter in the end. Once you gave even a little bit of yourself to Ivan, there was no going back. Ivan snuffed out all of the light, all of the beauty out of the world, and yet somehow that only made him all the brighter. Only made him more magnetic. Made him more addictive.

Ivan had been all that Toris had thought about for years. Without him, everything seemed as dull as it had that very first day. No getting him back.

Toris hadn't stood there before the mirror and realized what a horrible person he was and that he needed to change. He hadn't had a great change of heart. Hadn't felt the need to make amends. Hadn't wanted to redeem himself. It hadn't been conscience or kindness or regret or remorse that had turned Toris against Ivan.

It had been jealousy.

Always had been.

Yeah, the way Gilbert loved Ludwig was beautiful, it really was. But in some way, no matter how hard Ivan would have denied it, Ivan had been his, more than Ludwig's, and when it really came down to it, Toris wanted to take Ludwig from Ivan because he knew it would _hurt_ him, more than anything. Ivan had wronged Toris by not loving him, and now it was time to wrong Ivan.

He had accused Natalia and Ludwig of brawling over Ivan, but he had been there in the dust, too, just a little quieter and more subtle than his competitors. He may not have been in love with Ivan as they were, may not have wanted exactly what they had wanted, but was fighting them all the same. He had always loved Ivan, as much as he had hated him. Couldn't stand Ivan loving someone else.

Gilbert kept glancing at him in short intervals for the rest of the night, but quickly looked way if Toris met his gaze, anxiously, and it was easy to see, that look on Gilbert's face. Toris knew that look well, because he had seen it more times than he could count. The look he was used to getting. The look that he was more comfortable with.

Fear.

Couldn't say how it had all come to be, but here he was again, in this cycle. The world came to him again, this time in Gilbert. Yet again, despite it all, Toris started caring.

Eduard was dead.

Once upon a time, Toris had wanted to mail love letters.


	49. Sun and Moon

**Chapter 49**

**Sun and Moon**

Driving again.

Summer was high, and Toris was driving again. All he ever did nowadays was drive. Every waking minute seemed to be spent behind the wheel of some vehicle. In whatever shape or form. Cars, trucks, planes, boats, didn't matter. Always driving, and always at the behest of someone else. Couldn't ever find a destination on his own.

And, always, someone was beside of him.

Pale hair, glinting silver in the sunlight above dark brunet. Gilbert's hair was ever growing longer, and the days were growing longer, too.

Summer.

Weeks now with Gilbert. Felt more like months. The longest of his life, too. Couldn't say they were exactly boring though, not with everything he had put himself through for this stupid man beside of him. Had done so much, had traveled so far, had seen everything there was to see in the world in a way, and yet that was really the first time that Toris could say he felt like he was on an actual adventure.

Adventure! Yeah, sure. Why not? A long, endless journey, danger and death lurking around every corner, sabotage and mystery and diamonds, had everything any movie could have ever wanted. Toris just wished that the ending wouldn't be a tragedy, although he of course knew that that was the only possible outcome.

Gilbert was oblivious, and summer was high.

Siberia was the most ruthless thing on the planet in winter, but in spring it burst into life, colorful and bright, and when summer came everything was green and beautiful. Blue skies above. Warm air. Humid and windy. High grass, swaying in the breeze. Butterflies in daylight and fireflies in night. The endless forests all around. Nothing new, not to Toris.

July.

This summer, Toris was just taking a little road-trip, was all.

And not alone.

No matter how many times Toris looked over, it was always to see Gilbert staring at him. Not in terror anymore. The fear had faded not too long after they had left that house. The way Gilbert stared at him now was different, and Toris couldn't really put his finger on it at first. Didn't think too much about it, really, with so many other pressing issues.

The main obstacle to them those days was just the route. Toris had sat there over his map and ran every possible ending through his head, and knew that Ivan was sitting there in his office doing the same. Toris tried to think like Ivan, as Ivan tried to think like Toris. Ivan was brilliant, but so was Toris, and Ivan, for all of him, was shaken up. Toris wasn't. So, really, Toris was trying to think like Ivan thinking like Toris.

Toris had the upper hand, Ivan knew it, and for that Ivan wasn't going to be operating at his best. Ivan was terrified of losing Ludwig, would be anxious and stressed, and for that would miss so much, just as he had been blinded by Eduard and had missed the endgame. So Toris, quite boldly, just called up some of his guys and sent them out.

There were only two ways to get to Mirny : the main highway which led to country roads, and the logging roads that cut all through the forests. By crossing the river in Lesosibirsk, Toris had left the main highway behind and had gone on the small country roads. From there, the only way would have been the logging roads.

Ivan knew that.

Ivan would also know that Toris couldn't take the highway, because of course he couldn't! It was the only road, the only one, and Toris wouldn't be stupid enough to use the one single road to come straight back home with Gilbert. Toris would use the logging roads, because there was no other choice.

And so Toris drove around a little as his guys checked the river to make sure it wasn't blocked off, as Gilbert sat ever clueless, and then he went right back the way he came, drove over the river, and went back down to the main highway. Ha, of course Toris would take the highway, because Ivan was so certain he wouldn't, because doing so was so stupid and obviously suicidal. Ivan thought Toris a coward, and would never think that Toris could have the balls to use the only road possible.

Toris drove, quite easily and confidently, using the highway as Ivan no doubt sent his men up and down those thousands of logging roads.

Bastard.

Toris, despite his confidence, also knew that Ivan might consider that possibility, if only fleetingly, and it was likely that Ivan would try to cover both roads. That was why Toris sent his men out to the main highway as lookouts, had them always going up and down and sideways, and every time they stopped, Toris went straight to a payphone and waited for the all-clear.

Slow going, though, at this rate, so slow. Impossible to test Ivan for more than a few hours a day, and Toris kept switching between the highway and the country roads, but never once touched the logging roads, and so the route was very out of the way.

Had to go so far out, damn near to Mongolia, and then go up and around.

Would take two months at this rate, to get there, and Toris' only concern then was that they would make it to the house too close to the end of September, too close to winter, and the route back would be so much harder as they got caught in the snow and ice.

...route back. Yeah, had to survive that long first.

Better just to focus on the present, and not their inevitable demise.

The entire perimeter of Mirny, though, would be carefully watched, and Toris stared up at night, arms behind his head, and plotted ways to get around Ivan and to the house with Gilbert. Gilbert was the main problem, really. Toris could have pulled this feat off on his own, he was sure, but Gilbert slowed him down, Gilbert was too dumb, too slow, too stubborn. Toris was forced to plan his entire movement around Gilbert, around what Gilbert could do, because otherwise the poor son of a bitch was dead.

Made it even harder, planning around Gilbert like that.

For now, though, summer was pretty and Toris was driving.

The ache in his chest was constant, that awful longing, because he missed Ivan.

Gilbert always sat quietly in the car, and stared at him.

To take his mind off of the fact that it was Gilbert and not Ivan, Toris usually just kept a bottle of vodka on hand in the car, and sometimes, when thinking and longing just got to be too much, Toris would grab it and put back a chug. He hadn't ever drank so much at home, because it had always been important to him to remain quite alert when Ivan was around. Hadn't drank as much after Eduard had left. Hadn't drank as much when Ludwig was around. But now it was just him and Gilbert, and Gilbert couldn't hurt him, so why the hell not? Didn't need to be constantly on his toes right now. He was always a few steps ahead of Ivan.

Gilbert, however, didn't quite seem to share his sentiments. Gilbert seemed quite alarmed, somehow, and would always look over at Toris when he was drinking as if something frightening were happening.

The weather was warm, and Toris had been driving while drinking that day. His shirt was halfway unbuttoned, he hadn't shaved that morning, his hair was just tied up in an uncombed mess. Must have looked a wreck. Had nightmares the night before, and Ivan was too much in his mind. So he just put back swig after swig, and Gilbert just watched him with wide eyes and a low brow.

Finally, Gilbert muttered, carefully, "Are you sure you should be drinking...now?"

Toris barked a laugh at that.

Gilbert was a troublemaker, alright, always had been, but when everything was said and done, Gilbert was still a German, and it must have alarmed his (extremely) deep-seated sense of order, Russia. The way things were done out here must have been confusing to him on some level. Gilbert had spent a fair amount of time in jail, but for offenses that were considered just a part of everyday life out here. Never would have been put in jail for most of that stuff had he lived here. Gilbert was far out of his element, down the rabbit hole, and it was obvious. Gilbert did wrong and had always expected to be punished. To see people do wrong with no consequence was instinctively disconcerting to him.

Not to say that there weren't laws here, because obviously there were, and the police here loved shooting people, but no one fuckin' cared. About _anything_. Too much misery, too many people starving to death. No one cared about a drunk man driving.

Gilbert, by all rights, should have felt right at home.

Drunk driving was nothing out here. Everyone did it. Even women. Fighting was nothing. Being drunk in the middle of the street was nothing. Tripping on acid and falling into gutters was nothing. Bribery was nothing. So many things were nothing. Gilbert would have fit right in here had this been his place of birth, but it wasn't, and Gilbert looked alarmed.

So Toris finally took another swig, eyelids heavy and probably sneering, and said, so drolly, "Just keep an eye out for pedestrians and we'll be fine."

Gilbert's wide eyes and look of panic might have made Toris laugh any other time, but as it was he just felt sick.

Oh—missed Ivan so much, that miserable asshole, missed his mug. Missed his uniform, tucked away in the back. Had to wear regular clothes now, to avoid standing out, and that killed him. Felt too much like a normal man.

Just felt _miserable_ , and that was a shame, too, because that would have been the first time in forever that something had made Toris _laugh_ , Gilbert's look of utter horror. In some other life, in some other time, Toris might have enjoyed fucking with Gilbert, because the faces he could make were some of the best Toris had ever seen, even better than his little brother's.

Instead, Toris just scoffed, and kept his bleary eyes on the road.

_Missed_ Ivan.

Toris held the bottle out to Gilbert, and said, "You should drink. It'll loosen you up."

Gilbert must have been going through some damn bad withdrawal, surely, because he hadn't drank anything in the weeks Toris had been with him. Hadn't been able to get his hands on any acid or pills. Must have been unpleasant for him, to be so sober.

Toris was actually shocked when Gilbert turned his head away, and just said, after a hesitation, "No, thanks."

Couldn't help but look over at Gilbert then, but Gilbert had turned his eyes to the window, staring away and very clearly trying not to look at the bottle. Toris understood then that Gilbert was trying damn hard not to drink. Had he kicked his habit? Well—would have been a little hard not to, he supposed, during his journey. Toris might have felt a little bad, just a little, and was quick to put the bottle on the floorboard and out of sight.

No sense in tormenting him. Maybe having him clearheaded was better.

They drove and drove, and then they drove some more, and by the time Toris felt safe enough to make the next stop, Gilbert had been fidgeting for hours on end, with what was either an extreme need for a bathroom or an attempt to stave off a massive cramp. Toris didn't care much about Gilbert's discomfort, and pulled the car into the drive of a nameless little hotel. Just like with the highway, Ivan thought Toris was too smart to use hotels; Toris was just smart enough to know that Ivan wouldn't expect him to.

Safe, Toris assumed, for now.

He was confident these days, bolstered by Gilbert's anxiety and uncertainty of his companion. Gilbert was afraid of Toris and yet followed him blindly, and that made Toris feel pretty damn good about himself. Had complete control over Gilbert, over life and death, and so even though he was cast out of Ivan's world, Toris could cling to some kind of power.

Loved power, always had, and for that Toris enjoyed Gilbert.

As soon as the car stopped, Gilbert leapt upright and starting kicking his leg out. Cramp, after all. Toris watched him shaking his leg, and thought he smiled a little. Gilbert was amusing to him, somehow, no matter what he did, and maybe that was because Toris was drinking more lately. Gilbert felt more like a dog to him than a man, and Toris found him humorous.

Probably shouldn't have smiled at him.

Gilbert kept on staring at him, kept on looking at him, and when Toris passed him by, Gilbert had opened his mouth as if to speak, and yet nothing came out. Toris, ignoring Gilbert as easily as Ivan had ignored him, began the walk up to the rickety door.

And that was when something exceedingly _strange_ happened, and entirely at random.

Toris heard a shuffle to the side, there was a blur, and he realized that Gilbert had trotted ahead of him to reach the hotel door first. His automatic assumption was that tired Gilbert was ready to hit the hay, so it startled him a bit when Gilbert yanked open the door and then stood there, staring at Toris rather intently.

The fuck? The hell was he doing? Had his brain just suddenly stopped working mid-event?

Toris fell still for a second, confused, and said, rather sharply, "What's wrong?"

Gilbert shifted his weight, pushed out his lips, and turned his eyes to the open door. A long, almost pathetic stare, and Toris wished to god he hadn't thought it, but damn if Gilbert hadn't looked like a lost, miserable little puppy then, waiting for someone to come save him. As if Gilbert was trying to do something helpful and was instead finding himself looking a fool.

"Nothing," Gilbert finally grumbled. "I was just openin' it for ya, was all."

Oh.

Wait, what? Opening the door for _him_? No one had opened a door for him in ten years. He had always been the one grabbing handles and holding doors for other people. Always. Hadn't ever had someone stop and do that for him outside of a car, except for maybe once or twice with Feliks.

Surreal.

A short shuffle of Gilbert's feet, a look of what could have been embarrassment, and Toris did the only thing he could do, as Gilbert started twitching in anxiety; he stepped forward, and walked through the door. What else could he do?

Gilbert looked like he woulda keeled over dead from humiliation if Toris hadn't. As if this were the first time in his miserable life he had ever bothered to open a door for anyone, and would have been absolutely mortified if he had looked stupid doing it. Honestly, Toris would gladly have let him keel over dead, but this entire venture would be pointless if he did so. So he walked through the door instead, and heard Gilbert's shaky exhale.

Felt a little strange, crossing that threshold. Not exactly unpleasant. That old sense of power.

Still, though, when they were inside, Toris turned back to Gilbert and said, very sternly, "Don't ever open a door for me unless I'm in uniform. Ever."

People talked out here. They weren't in Berlin anymore. Gilbert needed to get that through his thick skull. Didn't matter if he was just trying to be polite, 'cause the last thing they needed was to be forced to keep driving because they got kicked out of a hotel before they could even check in.

Immediately, Gilbert squeaked, in fear, "Okay."

Looking back on it, maybe Toris should have just stood there until Gilbert had had no choice but to dart through the door first and pretend that that was what he had intended to do all along.

Toris left Gilbert behind, tipsy and feeling extremely agitated suddenly, and when he flopped stomach-first down on his bed, he heard Gilbert's clunky footsteps behind him. Didn't bother looking up at him, didn't know what to say to him, and so Toris just closed his eyes and wondered what Ivan was up to.

Pitiful.

Gilbert sat down on his own bed shortly after, cross-legged and arms folded, and he stared at Toris. Every time Toris turned his head for the rest of the day, it seemed that Gilbert was always staring at him. Honest to god, it was starting to get on Toris' damn nerves. The hell was he looking at? Gilbert had stared at him since the first day they had set out, and every single day it irritated Toris just a little bit more. His patience, already so thin, was ever waning.

The whole damn day, Gilbert just rested his chin in his palm, sitting there on his bed, and stared at him.

Eventually, agitated Toris sent him a glare, and finally asked, "What is it?"

Gilbert glanced away, quickly, although hardly abashed, and shrugged a shoulder.

"Then knock it off. Look at something else."

A crinkle of Gilbert's brow, and eventually he lowered his eyes. But he didn't move, and kept in that same stance, body facing Toris, and Toris couldn't really even imagine what was going on in Gilbert's head then. The poor bastard had gone crazy a long time ago, and probably wasn't really even lucid anymore.

Before long, though, Gilbert's eyes raised back up, and he resumed his staring.

Annoyed, Toris finally sat up on the bed, shirt wrinkled and still looking like hell, and he swung his legs over the edge as he forced Gilbert's gaze and asked, harshly, "You got some kinda problem?"

Didn't even know why it bothered him so much or why he was shouting at Gilbert. A last-ditch effort, perhaps, to keep that little bit of control he had.

Toris sent Gilbert his best glare, his most dangerous look, but Gilbert didn't really seem too bothered, and somehow, Toris found that a little hurtful; the first taste of life without Ivan, he realized. No one was going to be scared of him anymore, not really, because he was a nobody again. Damn. Felt alarmingly vulnerable, suddenly. So used to being in charge of other nobodies. Used to being someone. Missed the feeling.

Wanted Gilbert to be terrified of him, and yet that time Gilbert didn't look away. His fault, probably, for first not shooting the son of a bitch and then for smiling at him and then for walking through that damn door like an idiot.

Suddenly, out of nowhere, Gilbert said, "Thank you. For everything."

Ah—shit.

A long stare, and then Toris exhaled and turned his head away. Goddamn, hated this feeling, he really did, was so sick of pitying Gilbert. Wished he would have just shot him like he was supposed to, because then he wouldn't be sitting here now realizing that he felt so sorry for him. Hated caring about other people, and Gilbert was steadily worming his way in, just like Eduard and Ludwig had. The worst feeling imaginable, because he knew that Gilbert was an absolute goner and didn't want to get attached to him. Nothing good would come of it, nothing, and Toris knew it.

Just couldn't ever seem to help it.

They sat there in silence, Toris went to fetch Gilbert food, and when he came back, Toris was painfully aware that Gilbert sat up straight and breathed through his mouth and clenched the blanket. Relieved, as he was every single day, that Toris had really come back. Every time Toris left Gilbert alone, he came back to that same reaction, and it made his fuckin' chest hurt. That look.

If Toris had just up and left, Gilbert would have sat there on that bed and waited and waited, not moving a muscle at all until he finally fell over and died. Gilbert's shot sanity and mind seemed to force him utterly still when someone wasn't around. So terrified to be alone in this land that it was as if Gilbert's body literally seized up when he was left alone.

Gilbert relaxed the moment Toris threw the food down on his lap, staring away at him as he always did, and this time Toris couldn't really bring himself to bitch at him.

Seemed that his best efforts to put Gilbert in line were completely overridden by the fact that, at the end of the day, Toris was still taking Gilbert to Ludwig. As long as that was Toris' purpose for staying around, Gilbert would never truly fear him.

Sad.

Toris looked everywhere but at Gilbert until the sun started setting, and yet it was only inevitable that Toris eventually caught his eyes. That time, Gilbert seemed to be a little more alert, a little aware, a little more alive than he usually was these days, leaning forward just a bit as he stared over at Toris.

Toris opened his mouth, but was cut off.

Gilbert suddenly said, gruffly, "You know, you got real pretty eyes. I just noticed."

A rush of adrenaline. Ivan's voice in his head, as he had crooned to Eduard.

_'You have pretty eyes, did you know?'_

Had always wanted to be spoken to like that.

Just not by a nobody like Gilbert. Had wanted Ivan to say things like that. Not Gilbert, and so Toris scoffed, turned his head, and went right back to drinking. Didn't say another word to Gilbert for the rest of the night, and wished the bastard would never have said anything at all, because after that he could only think of Ivan. Again.

Being complimented at long last, by someone he didn't care at all about. Guessed it was better than nothing, but only by a hair.

Tried so hard not to get comfortable around Gilbert, not to care about him, not to let his guard down. In that, he was steadily failing, as he failed in everything.

The days passed. Weeks passed. Toris stopped drinking altogether, not only because of Gilbert's discomfort but also for his own, because with Gilbert suddenly acting like that Toris wanted to make sure that _he_ was the clearheaded one.

For all the good it did.

Gilbert kept staring at him, and sometimes, when Toris was out in space, he realized that he was staring right back at Gilbert. Hard not to, being stuck with him and having to see him every second.

Seemed that every time Toris looked up, he noticed something new about Gilbert. Saw something he hadn't seen before, some new little detail. Gilbert was instantly eye-catching, of course, for his lack of pigment, but Toris noticed other things here and there. Little sunspots across his neck and cheek. Gilbert's large hands. Scars here and there over his arms, some very old and some newer, and one down his forehead over his eyebrow.

The most fascinating thing that Toris noticed were Gilbert's eyes. Rather, that Gilbert's red eyes were actually blue. Noticed it one day, and now he couldn't stop staring. Absolutely hypnotized him, and Toris had even turned it into a bit of a game, because god knew he didn't have anything else to do except wallow in self-pity. Watching them constantly to see them shift color in the light. Seeing what color light caused which shade.

Hadn't realized that Gilbert's eyes were a pale, pale blue, and they only shone out red in the light because the lack of pigment in Gilbert made the blood behind the irises more prominent than the irises themselves. That was what turned Gilbert's eyes red in the light. Hadn't noticed until Toris had just glanced at him one night, in nothing but low moonlight, as Gilbert had been ever staring at him. Lo and behold, the bastard suddenly had blue eyes, silvery in the moon.

Had Toris still been a kid, he would have just said, 'Cool.'

Gilbert was truly unique, no denying that. How many people could really say that they knew an albino?

It seemed that more and more, with every day that passed, Toris found Gilbert a little less unappealing. It helped, of course, that Gilbert was being generally well taken care of now. Was eating well, wasn't crying himself senseless every day, wasn't alone and half-dead and hopeless.

Actually, with Gilbert having put on so much weight this past month and a half, with his pale skin losing that yellow hue, with that dye steadily fading out of his hair day by day, Gilbert looked a bit handsome. Go figure. Guess there was something there after all. Had looked so god-awful when Toris first crossed paths with him that seeing him healthy was a bit remarkable.

He wasn't a bad-looking guy. Not the worst Toris had ever seen. Certainly could never compete with his little brother, not by any means, and yet Gilbert had his own charm about him. Hadn't noticed it before, really, the sharp angle of Gilbert's jaw or the straight bridge of his nose. The shape of his eyes and how his cheeks were rounder now that he wasn't gaunt. Always interesting to Toris, anyway, to see non-Slavic features. Had been out here so long.

Maybe Gilbert thought the same about Toris.

Maybe Gilbert was thinking that Toris, having spilled his soul and shed his uniform, wasn't as frightening and unapproachable and unpleasant.

Must have been, really, because one morning, Toris neglected to tie back his hair, and went the entire day with it down, for once. Gilbert had stared at him as he always did, and sometime during the drive, Gilbert had looked over and said, 'You look so different with your hair down.'

Toris had just gave an uninterested, 'Hm!'

Became a little more interested when Gilbert added, in a lower voice, 'You look nice like that.'

Unease.

Felt like Gilbert was trying to squirm closer and closer to him, and Toris was a little scared of that because, aside from not wanting to get attached to Gilbert, he was fairly certain that Gilbert had lost his marbles and was just looking at Toris and seeing Ludwig.

Wondered if Gilbert really even knew who Toris was and where they were.

Toris, for his part, was happier not knowing, and so he didn't pry, didn't ask questions, and didn't try to reciprocate any of that attention Gilbert was trying so desperately to give and receive. Lonely bastard just wanted someone, anyone, and Toris understood that, he did, but Toris had been burned too many times by caring. Was stubbornly clinging to his determination, and wouldn't give Gilbert the time of day, just wouldn't.

No matter how hard Gilbert tried.

More days passed.

July was close to ending.

So far so good, on the road at least, but Toris' head was a different story. Now that he had let out his entire history to the air, Toris found his dreams to be far more unpleasant. Buried memories, rushing up to the surface. So many things he had let himself forget.

Hated, more than anything, seeing Feliks' face.

Those awful dreams he had.

Standing there on one side of a river, Feliks on the other, that water rushing white between them, wanting so, _so_ badly to cross and yet having no means to do so. Just staring at each other across the way, and when Toris looked down, he was always holding a gun, pointing it at Feliks' chest. No matter how hard he tried to put it down, he couldn't, and Feliks just stared at him, looking so sad and defeated. That awful look on his face that day, the last expression Toris had ever seen.

A gunshot.

He jumped upright, cold-sweating, and was in utter panic because he could still feel the gun in his hand and something had touched him. Fuckin' Feliks, probably, come to haunt his sorry ass like he deserved, for striking him down when Feliks had only done exactly what Toris would have done had the situation been reversed.

A movement at his side, and when he looked over, it wasn't Feliks' green eyes he saw.

Rather, Gilbert was there, under the blanket and beside of him, and Toris stared at him like an imbecile, breathing through his mouth and trying to calm down. Gilbert just stared away at him, on his side and curled up, and it took Toris a long time to gather himself up enough to bark, harshly, "What the fuck are you doing?"

Gilbert just stared at him, and whispered, gruffly, "I couldn't sleep."

So what?

"Get out," Toris commanded, immediately, but Gilbert just lied there, and Toris reached up to shove his shoulder, harder than he meant to. Gilbert was pushed back, but made no effort to move on his own.

Gilbert's face crumpled for an awful second, looking hurt and somehow far too close to crying, and he just whispered, as Toris stared him angrily down, "Can I just stay? I won't bother you."

Hell no, no fuckin' way, and maybe Toris was so angry then because he had dreamt of Feliks, maybe he was so angry because he so frequently thought of Ivan, maybe he was angry because Eduard was dead, maybe he was angry because Ludwig was gonna fuckin' shoot Gilbert, or maybe, maybe...

Maybe he was so _angry_ then because, god, he was _so_ lonely, so lonely, and he was starting to care about Gilbert. Trying so hard, and every day it worked less and less, and for that Toris was furious. Maybe he was angry because the part of him that he had lost long ago wanted to grab Gilbert and cry into his hair. He was afraid, so scared, and that made him angry.

Instead of just getting up and going to the other bed like he could have, Toris lashed out, because that was what he had always done, that was what he was used to, and he pulled himself up at the waist, raised his foot, and kicked Gilbert in the chest and out of his bed, with far more force than he ever really needed to use. Would be surprised if he hadn't broken a rib in there.

When Gilbert fell out of the bed with a painful thud, he just scooted himself back to the other bed and sat there, sitting upright, one knee up and the other leg splayed, palms on the floor, and when Gilbert hung his head and sucked in air, Toris felt like the shittiest man on the planet.

Goddammit.

Eventually, Gilbert uttered, thickly, "Sorry. I'm just— I'm scared. I'm so scared, 'cause I feel sometimes like I'm never gonna get him back. I feel like you're just taking me out there to die. That I'll never see him again, and I— I don't wanna be _alone_. I don't wanna die alone."

Gilbert pulled his other leg up, crossed his arms over his knees, buried his head, and said nothing more.

Toris sat there, tangled in the blanket, breathing yet through his mouth, brow crinkled and hands clenched, and didn't know why he felt so _bad_ then. Didn't know why he felt so horrible, so terrible, didn't know why he was letting Gilbert shake him up like this when nothing else could. Why he felt so upset all of a sudden. Why he couldn't breathe, why his chest was so tight.

Why he cared at all about this man.

Why he didn't want Gilbert to _die_.

Why he felt far too close to crying. Why his breath was hitching, why he was swallowing, why he had to blink so fast.

Just sat there and stared at Gilbert for what felt like eternity.

Gilbert sat in that same spot for the rest of the night, and so did Toris. Didn't sleep. Couldn't, even if he had tried to, because he felt so miserably guilty. The worst feeling. Had liked it so much better when he hadn't been using his conscience. Gilbert brought up too many old feelings.

When dawn broke through the window, Toris had realized that he had almost mimicked Gilbert's posture, as he sat up in bed and wrapped his arms around his knees, chin rested and staring away at the wall. Didn't move, didn't speak, because he didn't want to wake Gilbert up. Didn't want to see him or talk to him, because he felt so damn bad.

He couldn't figure out who was more pitiful suddenly.

The sun rose higher, and when Gilbert didn't move, Toris had no choice but to get up and carry on. Couldn't stop looking down at him, though, couldn't stop thinking about what he could have done instead, rather than kick Gilbert down to the floor.

Had forgotten how to interact with people without violence.

Gilbert stirred later, when Toris came back with food, and Gilbert turned his head, resting it on his arms and staring up at the window. That time, he didn't stare at Toris, didn't look at him at all. And even though that was what Toris had wanted, what he really needed to carry on with a clear head, somehow Toris couldn't _stand_ it. Couldn't fuckin' stand it, couldn't, and it was as if he had gone back to that awful realm of mist suddenly, because his feet were moving of their own accord and he didn't feel entirely in control of his actions.

He knelt down on one knee before Gilbert, and reached out to rest his hand on Gilbert's shoulder.

A long, awful silence.

Took a while before Gilbert finally turned his head and looked at Toris, and the expression on his face broke whatever heart Toris had left.

Had seen Gilbert at his absolute worst, nearly dead and so demoralized, had seen him look worse than any other man ever had, and yet somehow Toris could say that he was looking at Gilbert at his lowest moment then. Physically, Gilbert was at a prime. But not in his head, not then.

Just that look on his face.

As if Gilbert had realized suddenly and out of nowhere that he wasn't coming back with Ludwig. As if everything had shut down within him for it, because the notion of not having Ludwig was just too much for his heart and mind to handle. As if Gilbert's spirit had gotten kicked right out of him the moment he had hit the floor.

Had never seen anyone look so _lost_.

Gilbert stared at Toris, eyes bleary and brow scrunched, eyes flitting over Toris' face as they ever filled with water, and then Gilbert said, in a breaking whisper, "I think I'm ready."

Caught in Gilbert's eyes, Toris could only settle down onto his other knee and ask, weakly, "For what?"

Gilbert didn't have to the strength, it seemed, to lift his head at all, still resting it there on his arms, and he just replied, so listlessly, "To die. I'm ready. I just want to see him once, before I do. Just once. I just wanna see him one more time before I die. Can you make that happen?"

Oh—

Couldn't breathe suddenly, because his chest had locked and his jaw had clamped up.

Had never heard or seen anything more utterly pitiful. Gilbert had accepted it, had accepted his fate, and somehow, even though that was the way it _needed_ to be, Toris realized he couldn't stand seeing it. Gilbert would die, and he knew it and so did Toris, but somehow seeing it there at last on his face was just too hard to stomach.

Couldn't carry on like that, not that way. Wouldn't have been able to get up in the morning and start the car with Gilbert looking like that. Shit; knew then, in that moment, that he fuckin' failed again, again, because he cared about Gilbert. Cared about him, didn't want him to die, didn't want him to give up, and Toris hated himself for letting that happen.

Happened all the same, and there wasn't anything Toris could really do about it.

That was when Toris started outright lying to Gilbert.

Toris was an absolute realist by nature. Had been shaped that way. Looked at everything with as much detachment as possible, because hope and optimism hadn't gotten him anywhere the past eleven years of his life. In this instance, especially, optimism was completely useless.

Yeah, he knew it was stupid, but he still started lying to Gilbert anyway, because seeing Gilbert looking like that made Toris' throat clutch up. Couldn't stand it, that feeling of always being on the verge of tears, that awful sting in his eyes.

When Gilbert came out of the bathroom, shirtless and damp-haired, Toris could see the ugly bruise there on his ribcage from where Toris had kicked him, and he couldn't stand that, either.

Hated it, and so Toris pulled Gilbert up to his feet every morning, and lied straight to his face.

He yanked Gilbert out of bed, stood up him straight, grabbed his arms, shook him to rouse him, and when Gilbert finally lifted his heavy head to meet Toris' gaze, Toris would ask, "Ready to go get Ludwig?"

Changed 'Ready to go?' to 'Ready to go get Ludwig?'

Made Gilbert wake up a little more, just a little, and Gilbert would stare at Toris for a long while, miserably, and then would nod his head. Toris just clapped his shoulder, and tried to spur him on. Spent the whole day, every day, lying through his teeth to that stupid son of a bitch.

When they got in the car, Toris would say, 'Great weather, huh? You and Ludwig can catch the last bit of fall together.'

When they ate, Toris would say, 'When you get Ludwig, we can all go out to eat somewhere and I can show you some real Russian food.'

Before they slept, Toris would say, 'Rest up. You're gonna need your energy to show Ludwig around the sights.'

And Toris began almost every single conversation with, 'When we're back in Berlin...'

Took a week or so, but steadily, at Toris' stupid, obvious lies, Gilbert started to perk up a little, came back from that precipice, and Toris was damn glad for it. Gilbert had to know that Toris was just pulling his string, was just saying anything at all, and he yet he didn't seem to _care_.

Hell, Gilbert probably wanted to be lied to.

In the meanwhile, as Gilbert came around, Toris tried his damn best to plan everything out. Trying to figure out what the hell happened once they got back to Mirny. How they would put everyone up and away long enough to get to Ludwig. Toris knew that Ludwig wouldn't be hauled away, but if they could get him alone, then maybe it could finally be beaten through Gilbert's thick head that Ludwig was gone and wasn't coming back, and maybe they could turn and run and escape unscathed. If Ludwig didn't try to shoot them, anyway.

Lying to Gilbert with his voice, and picking apart the truth in his head.

Didn't want Gilbert to die, but he wanted himself to die even less, and spent every free minute trying to think of ways to make that happen. It wasn't so easy. Dying, although it was always the possibility that his rational mind came back to, was kept very low on Toris' list of things to do. Trying very hard to plan all of this in a way that left room for survival, and it was one of the hardest puzzles that Toris had ever tried to piece together.

Above all else, Toris didn't tell Gilbert that their plan at no point actually involved ever having Ludwig with them, that Toris had never once planned anything more than getting Gilbert to realize the truth without dying and then turning tail.

Toris' plan had consisted of getting Gilbert to Ludwig and then getting Gilbert the hell away from Ludwig before Ludwig could shoot him, and he didn't tell Gilbert that. As far as dumb Gilbert knew, Toris really was going to steal Ludwig away for him. Gilbert didn't need to hear Toris' concerns, because he wouldn't have listened to them. Until Gilbert came face to face with Ludwig, until Gilbert could see with his own eyes, he wouldn't listen. It was the only way, and Toris hated Gilbert for it.

Anyway...

Gilbert, in the back of his mind, knew the truth. That break in him weeks prior had proved it. Deep down, Gilbert knew, and so Toris wasn't going to say it.

Just pretend.

The next morning, Toris grabbed Gilbert to pull him up and give him that good little Ludwig pep talk, but this time Gilbert's head wasn't hanging and he met Toris' gaze easily. Still, dutifully, Toris asked, "Ready to go get Ludwig?"

Gilbert just gave a strange smile, a half-smile really, and didn't say a word. Just stared away at Toris as he had before Toris had kicked him, and Toris was damn glad for that. Gilbert had stepped away from that ledge, it seemed, and Toris' guilt abated at last.

About time.

He clapped Gilbert's shoulder as he often did nowadays, but that time, Gilbert's hand quickly flew up and covered his own. Toris didn't really know why he didn't pull away, why he just stood there and stared at Gilbert as Gilbert gripped his hand.

He was falling apart, it seemed. Undone.

They were driving again, soon, and Toris kept on glancing over at Gilbert, glancing and glancing, and hell, he didn't know why he did that either, because, as always, Gilbert was just staring at him.

An hour down the road, and then suddenly, out of nowhere, Gilbert said, "Pull over."

It startled Toris so much that he actually obeyed, hitting the brakes and pulling onto the side of the country road, and he only stopped because Gilbert had never once asked him to. Thought that something must have been wrong, thought that maybe Gilbert was hurt, or maybe he just needed to go to the bathroom, whatever, but Toris stopped all the same.

He stared over at Gilbert, expectantly, but Gilbert didn't move. Made no motion at all to open the car door, instead choosing to stare at Toris.

A twinge of irritation, annoyance, and Toris finally griped, "Well? What do you want, huh?"

Damn, was Gilbert ever staring at him in that moment, quite pryingly. Couldn't say that he had ever seen Gilbert stare at him quite that hard. Made him almost nervous, go figure. Could see a little, in that stare, how Gilbert had been able to dominate Ludwig and boss him around, when he looked like that.

Toris, agitated, pressed, sternly, "What's the matter with you? How much time do you think we can waste, you—"

His sentence found itself completely unfinished, when Gilbert grabbed the seat of the car in one hand, swung himself forward, and kissed him very abruptly.

Ah. Well. Hadn't expected _that_.

So stunned and taken aback was Toris that all he could really do was sit there like an idiot and let Gilbert kiss him. Flabbergasted, absolutely, so shocked and dazed that he was pretty sure his heart had actually stopped there for a second. Pitiful—hadn't been kissed in ten damn years.

Gilbert pulled back as abruptly as he had pushed forward, leaned his arm up on the windowsill, staring away at Toris as Toris gaped open-mouthed at him, and then Gilbert lifted up his chin and waved his hand.

"What are you stopping for, huh? What's the matter with you? How much time do you think we can waste?"

That son of a—

Absolutely the worst sort of man, the worst, Ludwig shoulda drowned the bastard a long time ago, and somehow still Toris thought he might have been smiling. Goddammit. He opened his mouth, realized there was nothing he could say that wouldn't make him feel foolish, so Toris just scoffed and started driving again.

Anxious and restless, suddenly, and Toris hated himself for being so damn excited when they finally stopped for the day. Not because he cared that much about Gilbert, of course not, but because it felt pretty damn good to think about something other than how Ivan was going to kill him. Nice to have a distraction to loosen the feel of Ivan's noose. When Gilbert stared at him, suddenly, Toris thought just a little bit less about the feel of Ivan's gun pressing into his stomach.

For his part, when they stopped Gilbert leapt right out of the car, looking around and seeming alert and wide-awake and somehow calm, and it was oddly Gilbert then who started leading the way. As if so bolstered that he didn't mind taking charge for a while. Toris, dumbly, just followed him, glaring half-heartedly at his back.

...hard to stay mad at him, honestly.

Not when Gilbert was paying Toris so much attention, at any rate. Toris was extremely self-centered, extremely egotistical, thought he was better than everyone else, had never denied that, and so Gilbert giving him affection was satisfying.

He knew that Gilbert was trying to keep his mind on anything, anything at all, other than the inevitable horror waiting out in the middle of Siberia. Hard to be excited by the attention. Gilbert was lonely. Had gone insane. Gilbert wanted Ludwig; that was all. As it had been with Ivan, so it was with Gilbert. Ludwig, Ludwig, Ludwig. All day and all night.

And hell, in some twisted, awful way, Toris wanted Ivan. He had wanted to hear those words, get that attention from Ivan, and Gilbert wanted it to be Ludwig sitting there beside of him. Had wanted Ivan to be the one to look at him like that, but it was Gilbert, and there was nothing Toris could do about it.

Toris wondered, briefly, if Gilbert was even really attracted to men at all. Certainly wasn't like Ivan. But then, Toris was fairly certain that Ludwig hadn't been attracted to men either, not really, but had been seduced all the same by insanity and power. Power had that effect on some people, and insanity did others in, and Gilbert was pretty crazy. Isolated from the world and completely alone. Toris was the only one nearby to get love from, and that was what it all came down to in the end.

It was what it was.

Stepping into that room then, though, was a bit awkward, at least on Toris' part. Gilbert went straight to the bed and flopped down on it, and seemed as if nothing out of the ordinary had occurred.

Huh.

Toris watched Gilbert out of the corner of his eye, suspiciously, and Gilbert seemed to be quite aware of that. Wondered if Gilbert was choking, or if Gilbert was hoping that Toris would come to him. Hoped to god Gilbert knew better than that, because even if Toris had been absolutely suffering he would never have lifted his hand. Woulda keeled over dead first. Had too much pride for that, far too much.

As expected, and as it should have been, Gilbert cracked first.

Night.

Toris was settled down in bed, arms behind his head and staring at the ceiling as he always did, still plotting his movements, and there was a creak from the other bed, and then a step on the floor. Toris didn't move a muscle, didn't look over, didn't bother, because somehow he already knew. Sure enough, a movement beside of him, the mattress sank a little, the blanket was pulled up, and, as he had once before, Gilbert squirmed under his blanket and curled up beside of him.

This time, instead of kicking him, Toris didn't move at all, arms still behind his head and feeling hardly bothered. Gilbert, on the other hand, seemed to be the nervous one, as he lied there on his side, staring at Toris and not moving much. Toris couldn't really blame him; probably worried that Toris' foot was gonna connect with his face this time.

But Gilbert crept closer and closer, and Toris didn't move. Could feel Gilbert's warmth, so close, and didn't move. Gilbert, a little bolstered by Toris' stillness, was finally right next to him, head underneath Toris' elbow and staring away.

How long had it been since he'd had someone in his bed that wanted to be there? Those parties didn't count, those times he had taken out his anger on soldiers underneath him. Hardly counted.

Gilbert's left hand raised up, suddenly, carefully, and just barely rested there atop Toris' chest.

Had some nerve, Gilbert, would give him that.

Toris finally moved then, only to lower his eyes to Gilbert's hand and study it. Oh yeah—

"I'm surprised you didn't lose that damn thing," he suddenly whispered, without thought, as Gilbert's fingers brushed over him.

A somewhat bland response.

"Almost did."

"Can you move it?"

Hadn't even really paid attention up until then. Had almost forgotten all about it, honestly, because he'd seen Ivan do so much worse than grinding someone's broken bone right into their muscle and tendons.

Gilbert tried to make a fist, and couldn't, not with that hand. Couldn't seem to get his fingers closed all the way, and that wasn't at all surprising.

Toris said nothing more, turning his eyes back upward.

Gilbert let his hand fall more heavily atop Toris' chest, now that Toris hadn't snapped his bone all over again, and then he asked, a bit apprehensively, "Say, where's your gun?"

Ha; what Gilbert meant to say was, 'You're not gonna shoot me, are ya?'

No. He wasn't going to shoot Gilbert, because if he had wanted to it would have been done already.

Didn't really want to give up any control, either, so Toris settled the matter somewhat with a firm, "I don't need a gun to kill you. So don't worry about it."

A slow, dumb, "Oh," which was obviously in reality more of a silent, 'Holy shit'.

It was true. Could have snapped Gilbert's neck as easily as Ivan had snapped his hand. Coulda killed Gilbert in a hundred ways that didn't involve a gun at all. Gilbert was a little bigger than Toris in his frame, but wouldn't have stood a chance.

A long silence, that hand still there, and Gilbert didn't move for a little while. Toris wondered if maybe he had scared him. Hated to say that he might have regretted it if Gilbert suddenly backed off, pathetic as that was. But maybe Gilbert was a little braver than Toris actually gave him credit for, because suddenly that hand on his chest crept up to his neck, as Gilbert crawled over, and the next thing Toris really knew Gilbert was halfway on top of him, head resting on Toris' chest above his heart and clinging to him.

Damn.

Toris just lied there yet, arms still behind his head, because to be quite frank he didn't really know what to do. Gilbert's head was still quite the mystery to him. Felt kinda sorry for him, if he were honest, though, and maybe that was why Toris finally exhaled through his nose and brought his arm down to throw it around Gilbert's shoulders. Poor bastard. Had probably been dying to cling to somebody for years, since he had lost Ludwig long ago.

And even though Toris knew, deep down, that they were both just using each other for their own purposes, it didn't really matter much anymore when Gilbert suddenly pushed himself up, hung over Toris, and kissed him again. He still pressed up and took hold of Gilbert's neck all the same. Didn't care anymore, at that point, because they were both miserable jerks and only wound up hurting everyone they cared about, so maybe they were sort of meant for each other in a sad way.

A hand on his face.

Just as before, Toris got caught up in that stupid whirlwind, let himself fall to Gilbert's eyes as easily as he had fallen for Feliks'.

When Gilbert realized that he wasn't going to be killed in any sort of way, gun or no, he seemed bolstered, confident, seemed to find a little bit of that arrogance and assurance he had once had, because he had grabbed Toris and yanked him upright to pull his shirt off before Toris could really figure out what was happening.

Ah, shit, was he really gonna do this? Worried that this would make him even more attached to Gilbert than he already was, worried that it would cloud his judgment when the time came, worried that he would end up setting himself back.

Despite his mind giving him many reasons why he should once more kick Gilbert out of his bed, Toris' body had other ideas, and after a good while of struggling with each others' clothes and then rolling each other over, it was somehow Gilbert who wound up pinning Toris down.

But only because Toris had let him, in the end. Let Gilbert have that little bit of control, because Toris felt like it, and maybe because he was just trying to relive a little bit of what life had been like back when he had actually been with someone that had cared about him.

That long forgotten feel of someone running fingers through his hair.

Fell to Gilbert then, because he had spent the last ten years hoping to fall to Ivan and never succeeding.

Felt so strange, being underneath someone like that, felt so odd submitting to Gilbert and letting him fall between his legs, felt very foreign in some way to put his hands on Gilbert's back and take hold. So strange because, really, Toris was used to fucking people over, to dominating and hurting and being in absolute control, and maybe for that to he let Gilbert take charge.

A little comforting, even, to let someone else take over.

Ten years with no rest at all, endless misery and anger, and suddenly Gilbert's face was pressed into his neck and his nails were digging into Gilbert's shoulder blades.

Had forgotten what it was like to let his guard down.

But he did that night with Gilbert, of all people, let Gilbert pant in his ear and let himself grab a handful of Gilbert's hair. Let himself get tangled in Gilbert for hours that night, because he was so tired of being ignored and alone. Let Gilbert collapse on top of him and kiss him, sweating and trembling with exertion, and let himself run a hand over Gilbert's cheek.

He may have been crazy, but Gilbert was, too, and for that Toris felt oddly comfortable with him. Still, though...

As Gilbert's chin dug into his collar, still between his legs and breathing heavily, Toris stared at the ceiling, and he wanted to say, 'Don't you dare get attached to me.'

He didn't.

He didn't want Gilbert to get attached to him, but above that, he was too scared that Gilbert would scoff and say, 'Don't worry about _that_. Who could get attached to you?' So long, having Ivan dismiss him over and over. Didn't want to be dismissed by Gilbert, not someone like Gilbert, because that really might have killed the last of his pride.

So he stayed quiet, as Gilbert drifted into sleep there above him, and listened to the somewhat soothing sound of Gilbert's breathing. The comfort of a weight above him. That _feeling_.

Power was great, it really was, and diamonds were even better. Owning the world. Owning people. Being able to do anything he wanted and get away with it. Knowing that he had control over life and death for so many people, countless people. Being in charge of scores of men. That was all great.

Somehow, though...

It just couldn't really compete with the feel of another person. Touching someone. Having someone under his palms. Having someone look at him and see him. Reaching out and sensing the warmth of a human being. The rather mesmerizing sensation of a heartbeat against his own. The scent of someone different.

Love ran the world as much as diamonds did, and even Ivan fell to it. That was why all of this had ever happened, after all, because a man like Ivan had fallen in love. No one was immune to that feeling, and everybody tried to cling to it. Ivan crushed the entire world beneath his boot and felt absolutely nothing, not a thing, but when Ivan had turned his head and looked at Eduard, he had been unable to see anything else. Ivan shackled and set fire to the entire USSR with no second thought and no remorse, but when Ivan saw Ludwig walk by, it was Ivan who was suddenly helpless and immobile.

Human nature.

When Gilbert inhaled and woke up later and squirmed off of him, he was very quick to throw his arm over Toris' chest and pull him in. And Toris, god help him, leaned his head to the side and pressed it into Gilbert's.

Couldn't escape that feeling.

Before long, both he and Gilbert were very likely to be lying next to Eduard instead of each other, so maybe Gilbert was right, for once.

Why spend those last precious moments alive alone?

They weren't good people.


	50. The New Order

**Chapter 50**

**The New Order**

Ivan had been acting strange lately.

Saying and doing strange things. Odd looks. Ludwig couldn't pinpoint the reason. Ivan wasn't himself, and it was rather disconcerting in a way, because sometimes Ludwig looked at Ivan and thought that maybe Ivan was nervous. Anxious.

Impossible.

Ivan was nothing less than confident, and yet all the same, as impossible as it was, Ludwig could see Ivan sitting there in a chair, elbows on his knees and face covered by his palms, eyes peering out above his fingertips as he stared ahead with a furrowed brow. His foot was always tapping. Pulse racing. Ivan was nervous, and seemed to be _waiting_ for something.

Toris.

Had to be Toris, had to be something Toris had done, and Ludwig walked by Ivan, saw him staring anxiously out of the window, and rolled his eyes. Toris hardly seemed worth the effort it took to feel anything, and the fact that Ivan was thinking so furiously about Toris irritated the hell out of Ludwig. Why bother? Toris was gone. If he knew what was good for him he wasn't coming back, so what was Ivan waiting for?

Ludwig couldn't say for sure what Toris had done to set him off, but it was more than a little interesting, to see normally confident Ivan in such a state. Would admit that. Annoying, yes, but fascinating. Ivan seemed to be slowly unraveling. Had stopped shaving for days on end, had stopped combing his hair in the morning. His shirts were always wrinkled and halfway unbuttoned. The summer air was warm, and instead of going outside to enjoy good weather Ivan had all but barricaded them inside the house.

Ivan was god, and he wasn't supposed to be afraid of anything.

But Ivan sometimes looked over at Ludwig from his constant vigil of the window, and Ludwig was so sure that he saw fear on Ivan's face.

When the fear vanished, though, it left wrath in its wake, and Ludwig enjoyed Ivan much more in those moments. Didn't like seeing him feeling under, and so when Ivan was holding a rather angry shouting-match on the phone with someone one afternoon in the office, Ludwig just sat on the edge of the desk, inspecting his nails in boredom as he waited for Ivan to stop shrieking. He glanced from time to time at ruffled Ivan, chest hair poking out from the collar of his sloppy shirt, forehead covered in sweat and cheeks gleaming with pale stubble, sleeves rolled up and muscles on display, and would admit that this unraveled Ivan was rather dashing.

Ivan did, eventually, stop shrieking and stood up, throwing his arms in the air with a curse, and started stomping around the room. When Ivan started punching the wall shortly after, Ludwig just glanced at the phone and wished he had studied his Russian a little more. Wished he knew why, exactly, Ivan was so angry and so nervous and so scared.

Didn't ask, because Ivan wouldn't tell him.

When Ivan's fist started leaving blood streaks on the stone wall, Ludwig finally slid off the desk and came forward, reaching out to grab Ivan by the waist. From the way Ivan squirmed around in his arms and lifted his shoulders and his fist flew up into the air, Ludwig thought for a second that he was going to be punched in the face along with that wall.

He just stared up at Ivan, rather drolly, and Ivan eventually lowered his arm, staring at Ludwig in turn and looking rather alarmed. Blood dripped from his knuckles down to the floor, and Ludwig couldn't tell what exactly was running through Ivan's mind then.

Knew one thing, though; Toris was going to be absolutely torn apart if Ivan could get his hands on him. Oh, Toris. Wasn't going to stand a chance once Ivan got a hold of him. Would be utterly annihilated. Ha. Sure hoped _he_ was there to see it.

Ivan was very still there in Ludwig's arms, uncombed hair falling onto his damp forehead and sticking there, a few beads of sweat rolling down his neck, and for once, it seemed to be Ivan that was pinned under Ludwig's gaze, and for a while there he looked a little dazed and confused.

Big oaf.

"You know," Ludwig finally said, as Ivan malfunctioned, "I find you far more handsome when you're angry."

Trying to get him to snap out of it, and it worked, after a short silence. Ivan's face suddenly relaxed, he gave a hiss of air through his teeth, that look of alarm faded, and then he gave a laugh. Ludwig smiled at him, and Ivan gave a great sigh, fell up against him, and seemed to come down a little. He buried his face in Ludwig's shoulder, as Ludwig eyed the blood streaking the wall.

Familiar. Ah, Toris.

Hands clenched in his hair. Ivan's lips were pressing into his neck, a hand up his back, and when Ivan finally pulled back, his confidence seemed to have returned.

Ludwig was pleased with his ability to drag Ivan out of a rage. Was getting better and better at it every time it happened. Ludwig had gotten quite confident with himself, very much so, and his ego rose each time he successfully wrangled that thundercloud.

Ludwig's next project, although one still being put together in his head, a bit intangible still, was on how successfully he could send Ivan into one of those rages. Had always done it before by accident, and now was trying to piece together how he could set it off purposefully. Wanted to push Ivan into a rage and then try to get him back. See what made him tick, so to speak. Why not? Had nothing else to do, not right at the moment, and now that Ivan was constantly preoccupied Ludwig found his mind wandering.

More days passed.

No sight or sound of Toris, as far as he knew. Ivan seemed to be hovering over the phone, and, to be quite frank, it was starting to get on Ludwig's last goddamn nerve. Hated that Ivan's full attention wasn't on him. Couldn't _stand_ it.

Didn't know that Toris could still piss him off so badly when he wasn't even in the house. Skilled, certainly. Toris had a knack for driving Ludwig up the wall, even when he was gone.

One day, after hours of sitting there at the desk with his face buried in his palms, Ivan finally looked up at Ludwig, ever perched on the edge of the desk with crossed legs and bored eyes. A long, prying stare, and then Ivan sat up straight in his chair, eyes wide and brow low, jaw clenched, shoulders braced, and he looked quite intent on something suddenly.

Ludwig turned halfway towards him, resting his hands upon his knee a bit primly, and waited for Ivan's great revelation.

Not so great, as it turned out.

An inhale, hands flying to the desk, and Ivan suddenly said, "Hey. Do you remember when I told you that I'd take you wherever you wanted to go? I think we should go somewhere. Would you like that? I never got around to letting you pick somewhere."

A crinkle of Ludwig's brow, a twitch of his nose. Was hardly able to keep from sighing then, because that wasn't exactly what he had expected. Hell yes, he wanted to get out of this house and go somewhere and wreak havoc, but that wasn't what Ivan was saying. He wasn't saying 'Let's get back to work.' Seemed to be saying more like, 'Let's go on vacation.'

Ludwig didn't want to go on vacation; wanted to get back on the field.

Missed the tanks, suddenly.

Ludwig looked at Ivan, and felt that twinge of irritation. Looked so hassled, suddenly. Ivan looked anxious again, as he often did these days, and that was just so unlike Ivan that Ludwig found he didn't want to move a muscle until Ivan was back to normal. Hated seeing Ivan like that, because it messed up his own routine and abilities. Needed Ivan in his normal state, in order to continue conducting his own experiments. When Ivan wasn't himself, Ludwig couldn't perform an unbiased study.

Ivan wanted to go somewhere. Surely—

Not possible. Stupid thought, stupid, but Ludwig couldn't help but wonder, a little, if Ivan was attempting to _flee_ from Toris. Ha! Oh, that thought! Impossible, so impossible, not from Toris. Toris was nothing. Not a thing. Toris was dirt, and Ivan would never run from pitiful Toris. Toris could get one over on anyone else alive, but not Ivan.

Surely.

...so why was he suddenly asking?

Sure enough, at Ludwig's silence, Ivan pressed, "Remember, I said I'd like to go to Argentina? Ha, maybe we can go. Would you go with me, if I went?"

Without hesitation, Ludwig said, "Of course."

Didn't want to, but would have followed Ivan anywhere, anywhere at all.

Ivan's hands fell off the desk and he crossed his arms across his chest, turning his eyes up to the great map on the wall. In the end, Ivan still called the shots, and all Ludwig could do was wait.

More restless days passed, but Ivan never made good on his words of travel, and Ludwig was glad. Maybe Ivan had realized that up and leaving would take a little more effort than he was comfortable giving in that particular time.

Since Ivan didn't move, Ludwig did notice that he was doing something else :

Erasing Toris from this household.

Ludwig was extremely pleased by that, because, well, he had been the one to push Ivan to it, and that had only been another little experiment.

Ivan had been ever by the window, eyes scanning the grounds endlessly, and Ludwig, so _bored_ by Ivan's wandering mind, had said, from the couch, "If he's gone for good, why don't you just throw all of his stuff out? One more spare room."

Ivan had turned his head, looking at Ludwig over his shoulder, opened his mouth, a strange look on his face, and then he turned his eyes back to the window without a word.

Ludwig stifled his sigh, glowering at Ivan's back and throwing himself backwards on the couch. Was gonna die any minute now, he knew it, from absolute boredom. Was so restless. Ivan had riled him up for all of these months, had been training him and prepping him, and yet they hadn't set foot out of this house since the day Toris had left, and Ludwig was going crazy. Had far too much pent up energy, far too much pent up frustration and anger and everything else, and Ivan wasn't even letting him get out some aggression by taking him out into the world.

Just stood and stared out of the window.

Ludwig had thought at first that his words had truly fallen on deaf ears, but that wasn't so.

Ludwig woke up the next morning to a ruckus, and was surprised when he realized that Ivan had gotten up before him. For once. A quick tromp downstairs, and Ludwig saw that Ivan was ransacking Toris' bedroom, ripping it apart and throwing all of Toris' belongings out into the hall.

Ludwig came to a halt before the pile of junk, and smirked.

Ah...

Well, well, well. Ivan had taken his suggestion after all. Had taken a long while, yeah, but had done it all the same. Ludwig felt satisfied, content, confident, and just leaned against the wall with crossed arms and a leer as he watched red-faced, sweaty Ivan throwing every single thing in Toris' bedroom out the door.

Ludwig didn't help him. Ivan did the heavy lifting here, not _him_.

Ivan looked livid, muttering to himself the whole while under his breath, kicking things frequently, and it was Irina, surprisingly, that actually seemed quite upset. She was standing over Ivan as he hauled out furniture, looking for all the world as if she wanted nothing more than to punch Ivan in the nose. She was screaming at him before long, really screaming at him, and Ludwig just stood there and watched eagerly.

Ivan dropped a piece of the bed he had been hauling out, stood up to his full height, sweating and face flushed and shirt unbuttoned, looking wild and dangerous and damn handsome, and Irina stood there before him, and they just screamed at each other. Irina reached out to shove her hand in Ivan's face, pushing him back, Ivan wrenched her wrist aside and threw her off, Irina shoved him, Ivan shoved her back, she hit the wall for the force, and their shrieks echoed down the hall.

Raivis came bolting in from outside, to see the cause of the chaos.

Ludwig had never once seen Ivan touch Irina, not once, and it was very interesting to him. Far from intervening as he may have once before, Ludwig raised a hand up to his chin, ever leaning casually against the wall and was fully aware that he was smiling inappropriately.

But he wasn't the only one : Raivis seemed _ecstatic_.

The second Raivis realized what was happening, the very second he realized that Ivan was throwing out Toris' possessions, he broke into a wide beam, trotted forward, and immediately started grabbing things out of the hall and helping Ivan cart them out into the yard.

Irina screamed so hard and so furiously, this time at the both of them, that she had started losing her voice. She couldn't stop them, not Ivan and not even Raivis, not as intent as they were, and suddenly all of Toris' belongings were in a pile in the yard. Ivan hated Toris so _much_ in that moment that he had literally taken apart perfectly good pieces of furniture, simply because Toris had been using them.

Ludwig walked outside, behind them, observing a bit from a distance, and Ivan had started trudging up with a can of petrol.

Irina started screaming again, barging forward and trying to yank the can from Ivan's hand. Impossible; Ivan was brutally strong on a normal day, and trying to take something from him when he was angry was entirely inconceivable.

Raivis, still smiling, just darted over and tried to drag Irina back.

The most interesting thing of the entire day happened then—actually, the most interesting thing of his entire life happened then :

As Raivis yanked Irina back, Ivan started splashing the gas on Toris' things, and Irina suddenly whirled around and slapped Raivis across the face so hard that he staggered. That didn't shock Ludwig so much. What absolutely shocked Ludwig, stunned him, was when Ivan dropped the gas can, lunged forward, and slapped _Irina_.

Ivan had never hit Irina, never, and she looked just as stunned as Ludwig did, hand flying immediately up to her cheek and eyes wider than he had ever seen them. Ivan grabbed her arm, gave her a brutal shake, hissing at her the whole while, and then shoved her back.

Ivan went back to what he was doing, and Raivis tossed him a pack of matches.

Ludwig felt breathless, smile wide across his face.

Another splash, and the smell of gasoline. The strike of a match.

Ivan tossed it down with a curse in Russian, and Toris went up in flames.

With that, with that fire, Ivan wiped the slate clean. Cast Toris out of their world forever. As far as Ivan was concerned, Toris was already dead. When he spit upon the ground in front of the bonfire, it was essentially upon Toris' grave.

The flames shot up, embers floating, dancing, and Ivan stared into the fire and muttered to himself. Irina stared at Ivan through the fire, arms crossed, and looked more furious than Ludwig had ever seen her. That look she sent Ivan through the crackling flames was one Ludwig had never seen.

Didn't like it, though.

The next day, Ivan slept almost until nightfall, no doubt exhausted from exertion and anger, poor thing, and Ludwig just watched Raivis pacing around Toris' empty bedroom with what could have very well been a look of triumph. Ha. Raivis. Wished he could talk to him, because Raivis seemed to grow on him a little more every day. Really should be studying Russian. He was getting complacent. A bit lazy. Turning into Ivan, as it was.

From that moment, though, Raivis was lifted up above Irina, and was more important than she was. Hadn't been that way before, and Ludwig had hardly paid attention to Raivis.

Ivan had slapped Irina because she had slapped Raivis, and Ivan clearly saw something in Raivis that he liked enough for that. Maybe to Ivan, Raivis was a little bit like a son, and Ludwig found himself suddenly wandering around behind Raivis, looking him up and down and observing him.

In his head then, Ludwig claimed Raivis as his.

Theirs.

Could be a little family unit, even, if he and Ivan raised Raivis and turned him into _them_.

Ludwig observed suddenly, for the first time, that Raivis' cheeks were dark from the hair he had been shaving. Hadn't noticed that, until then. Raivis wasn't a little kid anymore, fifteen, and Ludwig took note of that.

In the late evening, Ivan finally came trudging down the stairs, and Ludwig watched as Ivan went straight over to Raivis, waved a hand in the air, and suddenly Ivan was leading Raivis down the hall. Ludwig followed, because anything Ivan did automatically involved him without it having to be said.

Irina was missing.

Irina, still so angry, was huffing away somewhere, and didn't seem to want to be around Ivan. Maybe Irina missed Toris. Had to have been a shock for her, after having him around for so long. Toris had been a part of her family. Well. Irina would get over it, wouldn't she? No choice.

Toris was replaceable.

Actually, he already had been; suddenly, Ivan had taken up a uniform into his hand, gave a deep, irritable sigh, and handed it reluctantly to Raivis. Raivis stared at it for a long while, eyes wide and barely breathing, before he was finally able to reach out and take it. Looked like he'd been given the world entire. Ludwig watched him with a smile as Raivis lit up like the moon and was ripping on the uniform so fast that he nearly tripped over his own feet. Had wanted one for so long, according to Toris, so it must have been overwhelming for him to finally get it.

As Raivis hectically pulled on the clothes, Ivan watched him from behind, that crinkle still there in his brow, the lines on his forehead obvious, and it was clear how upset he was by this.

Ludwig came up to his side, and Ivan shifted a little, before finally muttering, "I wanted to wait until he was older. He's not old enough."

Ludwig, observing again the shadow on Raivis' cheeks and chin as he admired himself in the mirror, disagreed. Looked good enough in the uniform for Ludwig, sure as hell didn't look like a mid-teenage boy then, less so from behind.

All the same, because he hated that look on Ivan's face, Ludwig was quick to say, "Well, it's good for him to learn, right? Just let him play around for now. When he's old enough, he'll already know what to do, won't he?"

A pursing of Ivan's lips, before he exhaled through his nose and his brow lifted a little. Ludwig was content when Ivan suddenly smiled, if only halfway, and then looked over at him. A sudden, heavy arm over his shoulders, and a nose in his cheek. A whisper in his ear.

"You always know how to make me feel better, you know?"

Ludwig just smirked.

Yeah, that was something he was certainly honing and sharpening.

Ludwig suddenly asked, "What did you make him? Lieutenant?"

A steady nod of Ivan's head. Ludwig snorted. Raivis had gotten Toris' rank right off—kinda wished he could have seen the look on Toris' face. Bet he woulda had a coronary.

The next day, when Raivis came into the kitchen, he was dressed in his uniform. Come to think, he never took it off after that. Looked on top of the world, so confident, and he didn't really look like a kid after that day. Maybe Ludwig had just never paid complete attention to Raivis, and so it was a little interesting to _see_ him at long last, and in uniform.

Was tall, as tall as Irina, and he wasn't as lanky as he had been when Ludwig had arrived. Along with that stubble, Raivis had gotten taller and broader, stronger, and seemed to get a little more so each day. In that uniform, Raivis really didn't look as young as he was. Just looked like any other young Red soldier, and he knew it too because he was always puffed out so proudly. Raivis' boldness and pride made him look older, too, and sometimes when Raivis rounded a corner, Ludwig had to do a double-take because he had caught a glimpse of brunet and had thought it was Toris. Raivis was a little older every day, a little more fearless, and he suddenly wasn't so hyper. Didn't blabber away to Irina anymore, didn't run down the halls. Raivis, as far as he was concerned, was a soldier at long last and seemed very intent on acting the part. When Ludwig looked at Raivis then, he didn't see a kid. He saw a Red soldier of lower rank, but one whose utter fearlessness ensured him quick rising. He saw something he could create. Saw something he and Ivan could claim as something they made together.

Ludwig would catch Raivis' eye in the hall in passing, and they would stop and stare at each other, and Raivis would stand at perfect attention, smiling at Ludwig, and Raivis looked at Ludwig then as if he were looking at Ivan himself. Ludwig would just lift his chin and smile, and Raivis carried on.

Ludwig's ego was well stoked with Raivis.

Not so much, lately, with Irina.

Irina looked so angry, and so strange, and wasn't speaking to any of them, even Raivis. Irina looked so _strange_ all of a sudden, and Ludwig couldn't put his finger to it. Suddenly, Ludwig noticed that Irina was looking out of the door and windows as much as Ivan, but she didn't seem to be waiting for something. Almost looked like she searching for an escape.

Huh—now she was the one who wanted to run. Funny.

Ludwig watched Irina very pointedly, very intently, with every move she made, and he didn't know why he suddenly felt so oddly angry at her. What? She wanted to get out of here or something? Why was she acting like that? Ludwig stood there and watched her, watched her every step, her every move, her every breath, and she knew it.

She looked so jittery around him, so antsy, and maybe so nervous, because every time Ludwig came into the room Irina suddenly fell still, turned her eyes away, and then quickly left.

Something about Irina, then...

Ludwig couldn't say what it was, but with her abruptly strange and evasive motions and after having seen Ivan slap her, Irina suddenly didn't seem as important as she once had. Ivan had hit her, for the first time, and that meant that Irina had, somehow or another, lost her power over Ivan. She had lost her position, her stance of invincibility, and she probably knew it and that was why she wanted to leave. Without Toris here to watch out for her, maybe Irina realized that she was as vulnerable to Ivan as anyone else.

Ludwig watched her watch windows and doors, and couldn't help but be a little content, actually, because Irina losing that last little shred of control over Ivan meant that, really, the only person now on this planet that controlled Ivan was _him_.

So long Ivan had told Ludwig he owned the world, and that was the first time he knew he really did.

Ludwig released Irina from his gaze that day, as she fidgeted there on the couch, arms crossed and trying so hard to avoid looking at him, and he turned towards the hall to go find Ivan. Had been missing all day, had been absent since Ludwig had woken up, and wanted to see him then with this new sense of power.

Ludwig finally found Ivan in one of the empty rooms, sitting alone on a roll of carpet, back to the door and hunched over. The window was open, warm air blowing in, Ivan's white wifebeater was as wrinkled as everything else, and his hair was sticking up to high heaven. Ivan's sudden sloppiness, although visually appealing, was starting to annoy Ludwig as much as the rest. Would have to start grooming him soon, apparently, since he seemed incapable nowadays.

When Ludwig came forward to start fussing, though, he could see that Ivan's face was buried in his hands, he was rocking a little bit back and forth, and, god, it almost sounded like he was crying.

Couldn't be.

Ludwig came over, knelt down before Ivan, and reached up to grab his wrists.

Ivan's fingers parted, and pale eyes stared out at him. Bleary and red, dark circles beneath, eyelids lidded low and puffy, and Ludwig knew, suddenly, that Ivan _had_ been crying.

He fell fully onto his knees, forced Ivan's hands down, and the pitiful way Ivan looked at him made Ludwig feel an alarmingly potent sense of adoration. Oh, this man. Loved him so much, loved everything about him, and he couldn't held but reach his hand up and run it over Ivan's stubbled cheek.

Ivan's face crumpled, for an awful second, about to start crying again, and he hung his head. Must have been the stress of whatever situation was forcing Ivan to constantly stare out of the window for hours on end. The stress of Toris, as it was.

Heavy breathing.

Ivan pressed his face into Ludwig's palm, resting the full weight of his head there, and Ludwig held him steady. Ivan's hands raised up, then, one gripping Ludwig's wrist and the other resting on his shoulder, and Ivan seemed so oddly vulnerable to him in that moment. Felt like Ivan was just that lost little kid then, long forgotten.

A muffled mutter.

"Irina's so mad at me. She wants to go back to Moscow."

Ludwig was silent, because he didn't really know what to say. Just felt an odd rush of irritation, aggression, and felt so annoyed more than anything.

Before he could think of anything, Ivan said, in almost a moan, "I don't wanna go back to Moscow, I hate it there so much. I want to stay here, with you."

Ludwig reached up his other hand, ran it over Ivan's uncombed hair, smoothing it back, and said, with a hint of amusement, "You don't have to go back to Moscow. You know? You don't have to go, just because she does."

For a while there, it almost seemed like Ivan didn't hear him at all, as he continued to burrow away in Ludwig's palm.

Ivan squinted his eyes shut, and whispered, shakily, "I love you so much. You can't ever leave. You can't. I wouldn't— I love you. Please don't ever leave. Please. I'd do anything to keep you. I'll do anything you want, if you stay. Please don't leave. Please, don't ever go away."

Ludwig's brow came down in confusion, as Ivan continued nuzzling into his palm.

Leave? Never. He couldn't even fathom waking up now without Ivan being beside of him. Didn't know what was going on suddenly, why Ivan was acting so strangely, speaking so strangely, why his motions and words were unfamiliar and so uncharacteristically helpless. Wished he knew what was happening. Before he could ask, at long last, Ivan suddenly fell deathly still. The hand on Ludwig's shoulder contracted so tightly that Ludwig couldn't help but give a hiss, and the one clenching his wrist damn near snapped the bone.

Pain.

A sharp inhale.

Ivan suddenly opened his eyes then, wet as they were, and looked up at Ludwig. Intensity. As they always had before, Ivan's eyes froze Ludwig in place, so intent were they, and the expression on his face would have terrified him once. Ivan's voice had stopped shaking, and seemed suddenly brusque and sure when he spoke again. Sharp and very low.

"If you ever leave me, I'll shoot you. I'd shoot us both before I ever let you go. You can't leave me. Ever."

Well, then. No more 'please'.

Not afraid. Not alarmed. Ivan's oath didn't frighten him, didn't shake him up, didn't make him panic. Ludwig was damn glad to hear it, actually. What he felt was something more like exhilaration. Elation. Not only pride in himself, but he was glad to see Ivan snap out of it, because he couldn't stand seeing Ivan being such a wreck.

So Ludwig just sighed, stood up, pulled Ivan to his feet, and took his face within his hands. Looking Ivan up and down, as Ivan's fingers continued to bruise him, Ludwig just chided, gently, "What's the matter with you? I told you I'd never leave. I meant it."

Ivan's piercing, deadly stare, boring right into Ludwig's brain and judging his sincerity. Of that, there was plenty, because he absolutely meant it, and Ivan seemed satisfied. The painful grip loosened up, Ivan's shoulders slumped, and dammit all, that misery came back. What the hell was _wrong_ with him?

Ludwig shook his head to himself, and all he could think of to do then was to drag Ivan out of that empty room, take him down the hall to the bedroom, and shove him down into the chair before the desk. Wanted to give him a good whack, to wake him up, but also didn't want a broken leg, so, instead, he took Ivan's face again and straddled him in the chair.

Ivan looked so pitiful, and he held Ludwig's waist and stared blearily up at him.

Ludwig kissed him, quickly, and said, once more, just in case, "I won't leave you. And hey—if you ever told me to leave, I'd shoot _you_."

And honestly?

He meant that as much as he meant anything else.

Ivan's mouth fell open, breathlessly, he looked quite incredulous, and when Ludwig smiled down at him, Ivan finally smiled, too.

Good.

At last Ludwig said, before Ivan could get his brain working, "I'm _bored_. I want to go outside. Can't we just go walking around? Something? I'm so bored. I want to go walking in town."

Ivan's brow crinkled, he looked alarmed, as he had that one day, and his grip on Ludwig's waist was tight. A long study of his face, Ivan's eyes flitting away, and then there was a sharp inhale.

"You won't leave me, ever, right?"

Again?

Successfully able to suppress what would otherwise have been his hundredth eye roll that week, Ludwig just affirmed, "I won't leave you."

A swallow, a nod, and then Ivan's husky voice, whispering, "Alright. Okay. Alright. We'll go on walks, every now and then. Is that okay? I'll take you a walk tonight, if that's what you want."

Ivan had said, earlier, that he would do anything Ludwig wanted, after all, as long as Ludwig stayed.

Every day, Ludwig stepped up just a little bit more above the fog. Seemed, sometimes, that maybe he was a little more above it than Ivan was. Sometimes, Ludwig felt like he was so close, so damn close, to harnessing Ivan. Ivan would do anything for him, and that meant that he was the only one that had power over Ivan, and for that, really, it was Ludwig who truly owned the world.

So Ludwig kissed Ivan again, pulled off his shirt, unclasped his belt, and Ivan, as always, fell to him and started ripping his clothes off, because, really, Ivan _did_ just do whatever Ludwig wanted. In some way, since the very beginning, he always had.

Fingers digging into his waist, as Ivan used his brute strength, as always, to move him along. And Ludwig just clung to Ivan's neck and held on for the ride, as always, and couldn't wipe that sneer off of his face, even as Ivan tried to hurt him.

Ivan did everything he said, even if it wasn't immediately.

Power.

The whole time, Ivan clenched him, and every time he moved upwards Ivan muttered, "I love you."

Ludwig just kissed his neck, and smiled. Big dummy. If Ivan thought he would ever try to leave, then that was one thing perfect Ivan had gotten wrong. How could he ever have even thought it? Never. Wasn't going anywhere, not anywhere. Anyone who ever tried to come between them would have to go through him first. Whatever was going on outside that window, it wouldn't be enough to part them.

Love.

They'd always be together.

That window, though, seemed to be drawing everyone's attention lately, and Ludwig was suddenly less irritated with Ivan's waiting than he was with Irina's planning.

Moscow—that was some nerve.

Ludwig held on to Ivan's neck, staring above him and at the wall as Ivan moved him up and down, and it suddenly occurred to Ludwig that if Irina wanted to leave so _badly_ , then she could just go.

In one way or another.


	51. Lives Wasted Away

**Chapter 51**

**Lives Wasted Away**

Affection.

A strange, rather forgotten feeling.

Certainly wasn't love, Toris knew that, never had any question at all about that. Love in his experience had been reserved entirely for Ivan, and no matter how hard Gilbert tried, that couldn't ever be replicated. Toris couldn't ever have said that he was even sure what love felt like. He had been too young with Feliks and maybe what he felt for Ivan was closer to obsession.

But what he felt for Gilbert wasn't anything like what he felt for Ivan, so Toris knew that it wasn't love. Affection, certainly, but that was the extent of his emotional attachment to Gilbert. That was a two-way street, of course, and Toris knew that whatever Gilbert felt for him was absolutely nothing compared to what he felt for Ludwig.

They just leaned on each other for support, to not be alone in what was very likely to be their last days.

Toris wouldn't lie, though, and say that Gilbert wasn't growing on more and more every day, because he was. It hadn't been immediate and instant, hadn't been love at first sight like with Feliks, but damn if Toris wasn't getting a little invested in Gilbert.

Just a little.

Watched him so much these days, as much as Gilbert had watched him before. Liked to observe him, because Gilbert was so different now than when Toris had picked the mutt up. Gilbert was taller than he was, by a few centimeters, shorter than Ludwig yet. Gilbert was bigger in the chest and shoulders than Toris was, though, and Toris didn't know why but he liked to watch Gilbert walk. Now that he was actually walking, that was, and not just floating around like a ghost. Liked the way Gilbert swung his arms when he walked, the way he held his shoulders back and chest up, the way he almost swaggered at times.

Having someone paying him attention was what seemed to wake Gilbert up and make him confident and strong. The moment Toris had conceded to Gilbert, it seemed, he had just woken up the next morning and was suddenly strutting around as if he hadn't been accepting death not long before. Gilbert was one of those men that sucked their confidence right out from other people because they couldn't make it by themselves. Gilbert thrived off of someone thriving off of him, and maybe that was why he needed Ludwig so badly, why he was doing this to begin with.

Toris found Gilbert insufferable, and somehow loved him for it, because Toris loved men that were assholes, in the end. Always had, as much as Ivan had loved brave men.

One morning, Gilbert came out of the bathroom, and his hair was shorn. Cut like Ludwig's, short in the back and longer in the front, just a bit. Not quite long enough to slick back like Ludwig did, but enough for it to stick up at the top. The dye was all but gone, and Gilbert was silver-haired once more now that the tips were cut.

Well, well. Gilbert was so stoked, had perked up so much, that he was actually starting to take care of his appearance. That was a good sign, at least. Had to mean that Gilbert wasn't quite so ready to die after all, if only a little.

Gilbert saw him staring, lifted his chin with a snort, ran a hand over his cut hair, and said, quite coolly, "Like it?"

Like going back in time, and seeing Gilbert as Ludwig had seen him. Seeing him so stuck on himself, so proud and self-satisfied, and actually, Gilbert was more handsome in that moment than Toris had ever thought it was possible for him to be.

Liked Gilbert's undeserved ego, despite himself, and so Toris had just said, a bit condescendingly, "Sure. Looks good short. You're just a little less goddamn hideous like that."

Maybe he wanted to make Gilbert laugh, and for a moment there, he almost had, was so sure of it, but eventually Gilbert just scoffed and waved his hand dismissively in the air.

"Eh—you got no taste."

Toris couldn't help but smile.

Nope. Never had. That was why he liked Gilbert so much.

They teased other for the rest of the night, and for just a while there, Toris felt a little like he was sitting there on Feliks' floor once more, young and dumb and naïve and back in the real world. Felt a little bit of happiness, a little hope, a little alive. Pretending and lying to each other made it all so much easier.

And then, two days later, when Toris thought that he really had everything pretty well figured out, Gilbert surprised him again, shook him up again, made him doubt himself again, and without even meaning to, as always.

Just came out of the bathroom after a shower, and stood there in the door.

His look had been so strange, so odd, as he had stared at Toris as he had been combing his hair.

"Hey," Gilbert suddenly murmured, as he lingered there in the threshold, "Listen."

Toris paused, brush falling still, and looked over his shoulder. Only did so then because of the tone of Gilbert's voice. So low and rough and deep. Had never heard that tone, not really, and hadn't actually known that Gilbert's voice could get quite that low.

Gilbert stood there, shirtless and red-faced, shifting his weight back and forth as though suddenly apprehensive, and, in one of those rare moments, his dull eyes were very alert and bright. Looked perfectly lucid and conscious, well aware of where he was and with whom.

Sane.

He caught Toris' gaze, and continued, "Listen. When I get Ludwig back, will you... I mean, that is, when I go back to Berlin, do you wanna...come with us?" After a short silence, he added, voice so low that Toris could barely hear, "That is, will you stay there? With me. Will you go back with me?"

Stunned and dumbfounded, Toris just asked, "Why?"

Shocked. No one had ever wanted to take him anywhere.

Beyond it all, Toris wondered if Gilbert really believed, for one, that he would actually ever make it back to Berlin, and two, if he just didn't _realize_ that he couldn't stay in Berlin even if by some miracle they made it across the iron curtain. Didn't Gilbert know that he couldn't just stay there? Staying in Berlin would have been as much a death-sentence as staying in Siberia. Gilbert couldn't stay in Berlin if he escaped, would always have to keep moving, for the rest of his life, and Toris wasn't sure if Gilbert understood that at all.

Maybe he was trying not to think that far ahead. For the best, actually.

Gilbert seemed to be caught a bit breathlessly under Toris' gaze, and suddenly he took a step forward, one hand flying up to the back of his neck in anxiety, and he seemed to be gathering up his courage to speak again.

Toris didn't make anything easy for Gilbert, really didn't, and he was aware of that and sometimes he regretted it but that was just his nature. Couldn't help it.

At last, Gilbert managed to say, ever lower, "It's just—! I fucked up so bad, so when I get Ludwig, I won't be allowed to keep him, you know? I've gotta let him go, I gotta give him away, anyway, so I... I want something _I_ can keep."

Without thinking, Toris said, "Who's there to give him to? Everyone's dead."

Gilbert slumped as his face came dangerously close to crumpling.

Toris regretted that, too.

"I know," came the slow, dumb answer. "I just... He wouldn't stay with me, anyway. I make him so mad."

Another silence, and Gilbert's face had steadied again.

He asked, again, "Will you go back with me?"

And again, Toris asked, "Why?"

Wanted a straight answer for that, maybe if only to actually hear someone say it aloud. No one ever had.

Another shuffle, another hesitation, as Gilbert seemed to be struggling to put his emotions into words, and then, finally, he uttered, a bit gruffly, "Well. I've...kinda gotten attached to ya."

Perhaps the closest he would ever come to hearing it, and Toris found that it was good enough. More than sufficient.

Hell. Stupid, the stupidest notion he had ever entertained, because of course it wasn't going to happen, Gilbert was a goner and Toris probably was, too. They would never be side by side in Berlin, never, not once, and it was absolute folly to even entertain the thought.

And yet...

Even though he couldn't find his voice, couldn't think, couldn't focus, couldn't ever understand what Gilbert really _wanted_ , Toris felt himself nod, as if through a mist. Gilbert looked almost relieved.

An awkward stillness.

A ghost of a smile across Gilbert's pale face, and then he said, softly, "I'm glad."

The brush had slipped from Toris' hand and right to the floor as the force of shock hit him like the damn cold in winter did.

By god!

That simple sentence affected him more than the question itself. Toris had never felt so utterly and completely astounded. _Glad_? For Christ's sake, why? Didn't Gilbert understand who he was? Didn't he understand that it wasn't safe for him to be around Toris? That if they did go off together, that it was extremely likely brash Gilbert would do something to irritate Toris so much that maybe a gun would be pulled? Didn't Gilbert understand that the Ivan-Toris was impatient and impulsive? Angry? Moody? Twitchy, with a hair-line trigger? Toris had gotten accustomed to shooting first and asking questions later, and, to be quite frank, he had killed so many people so much more innocent than Gilbert had ever been. Not safe. Toris going to Berlin with Gilbert would eventually be Gilbert's end, because sooner or later Toris would do something to hurt him.

Didn't Gilbert know how many people Toris had really killed? Didn't Gilbert understand that Toris was the very last person anyone should have ever wanted beside of them?

Just couldn't understand, and Toris eventually turned away, staring away and feeling rather blank and dumbfounded. Gilbert collapsed on the bed beside of him, twisted around, and wrapped his arms around Toris' neck, pressing his face into Toris' loose hair.

Toris didn't move. Couldn't. Stunned into immobility.

Oh...

Suddenly, Toris just wanted to turn around.

Didn't want Gilbert to _die_.

* * *

August.

The closer they got, the more terrifying his dreams became.

Thinking of the outcomes.

Toris could only lie there sometimes, staring at the ceiling, and he could see Ivan and Ludwig up in his head. Together, as they always were, hand in hand and staring at each other as though they were the only thing in each other's sights. Ivan pressing the gun to Ludwig's head as they played around. Ivan slipping diamonds into Ludwig's hands as the Soviet Union burned and starved. Dark closets. Ludwig twitching his hand in the air and Ivan crushing the world for him.

Horrible flashes in his mind of them, interacting with each other in ways that were perfectly normal to them, but terrifying to other people.

Toris was glad, more than anything, that Gilbert couldn't see what he saw.

Ideas came to him here and there in the dead of night. Wisps of plans and possibilities. Toris' mind was ever whirring, and finally, after a long while, he thought maybe he had come up with something. Toris finally pieced together something that might just have allowed Gilbert to see Ludwig, although it was so risky, so risky, because too much of it relied on Gilbert's own strength and endurance. Sometimes, although Gilbert looked very strong now, Toris truly doubted his abilities.

Just couldn't think of anything else, for the life of him, and so he finally sat down in front of Gilbert on the bed one day, and knew it was time to talk about it a little. Gilbert reached out instantly to grab Toris and pull him over, but Toris' hands snatching Gilbert's wrists stopped him short.

Gilbert must have seen the look on his face, because he fell still and silent, brow crinkled, and waited for Toris to speak.

Toris asked, a bit randomly perhaps, "How fast can you run? You ever sprinted?"

Gilbert sat there, wrists still held in Toris' hands, and for just a second there, Gilbert snorted. His brow raised up, his chin lifted, his eyes lidded, and for a second Toris could see there the arrogant bastard he had once been.

"Not to brag or nothin'," Gilbert began, that smug look still on his face and captivating Toris for its sheer audacity in the situation, "But I'd say I'm pretty damn fast. Have you ever ran straight across a border and through razor wire with guards chasing and shooting at you? I ran right through 'em. You ever done that?"

Toris narrowed his eyes and sent Gilbert a look of exasperation because he could hardly believe the bastard was actually trying to show him up. Him! Gilbert, of all people, trying to brag to _Toris_ about something.

And yet, for it all, Toris really could say that Gilbert had done something he never had and never would, because Toris had certainly never ran right through a barbed-wire minefield of a border crossing. Not because he wasn't brave enough, of course, but because Toris wasn't _dumb_ enough. Toris of course had never done that, because Toris was smart enough to walk right through the border in plain sight.

Well. Gilbert hadn't had a choice, perhaps, and Toris was actually kind of glad to hear that, and he was also glad to see that look on Gilbert's face. Any time that he could see the old Gilbert was a good day.

So Toris just replied, very dryly, "No, can't say I've done that."

Gilbert smirked then, actually smirked. Toris had never seen it, not once, and somehow found himself a little entranced by it, so much so that he almost didn't want to talk anymore at all because he didn't want to see that look go away. Didn't want to see Gilbert look lost and terrified again.

Dammit—no choice, really, because he couldn't put it off forever.

So Toris just got his fill of that self-satisfied smirk, took a deep breath, steeled his will, and then spoke on.

"Good. Well, then. I'm gonna need you to run, and really damn fast, got it? When I tell you to, you run."

As Toris had known, Gilbert's little smirk started to steadily fall. Could see him swallow, and Toris hated it.

"Ludwig will be inside the house, and he won't be alone. So. We got three people to get rid of before you can get to Ludwig, so you gotta be fast. Ivan—" Gilbert shuddered at the name "—will be impossible to get by in the house. I think— What I got in my head right now, I think we're gonna haveta leave the car outside of town and come in through the forest. He can't see us coming as well for the trees. At night. It will have to be at night. Ivan will be waiting for me, he'll be watching everywhere for me. So, I'm gonna get his attention, and get him to come after me."

Gilbert's pulse started racing, his brow came down over wide eyes, and he opened his mouth as if to speak, but Toris cut him off. Didn't wanna hear it, didn't, because his courage was already far too thin.

"Ivan won't let Ludwig out of the house. He'll come after me alone. When I run, Ivan will follow. I'll lead him out, as far I can, but the second you can't see him anymore you run, alright? Run as fast as you can, down to the house, don't stop for anything, anything, and you get inside. Ludwig won't be alone, so you'll have to get through Irina and Raivis."

Toris was playing it over and over in his head, so many outcomes, so many possibilities, and so many minds he couldn't understand. Didn't think that Irina would actually try to stop Gilbert, but honest to god Toris wasn't sure because Irina was crazy, too, and maybe she was also painfully aware that Ludwig's absence would end up being her own demise.

Toris' greatest fear, for Gilbert, was Raivis.

The second Toris had cut his bond with Ivan, Raivis had no doubt taken his place. Probably had finally been given a uniform, if only to bolster his confidence, because Ivan knew he needed all possible eyes while Toris was still MIA. Raivis would protect that house and everyone inside of it, and if Ivan had given Raivis a gun then Gilbert was going to be in trouble.

Pfft—

For all it mattered. It would be Ludwig that shot Gilbert, so Raivis seemed hardly more or less of an obstacle, in the end.

Toris finally said, lowly, "Look. I don't know if they'll try to stop you or not, I don't, so if you have to shoot them, just do it, got it? Don't think too much about it."

They all deserved to be shot, anyway, but Gilbert looked so scared suddenly. That little inhale, the dilation of his pupils. Toris knew that it was because Gilbert, when it was all set down before them, wasn't a killer. He wasn't like Toris. Gilbert was a shitty man with a shitty attitude and not right up in the head, violent and angry, but he wasn't a murderer. Had killed Natalia entirely by accident, and that had really screwed him up. Gilbert wasn't a killer, and Toris wished he were because it made things so much harder. If Gilbert pulled the gun on Raivis and then choked, he was dead. Raivis wouldn't hesitate.

Neither would Ludwig.

Ludwig, always armed these days.

Gilbert was still for a moment, and then asked, in a soft whisper, "And then what? What about you? How am I gonna get him out and then find you?"

Toris held Gilbert's gaze, and when Toris didn't say a word, not a word, Gilbert lowered his eyes back down, and was quiet.

Didn't need to answer, because the answer was already obvious, even to Gilbert : 'You won't.'

Every day, they got a little bit closer, and Toris was on borrowed time so maybe it was prudent to go ahead and talk a little, try to come to an understanding with Gilbert, maybe even to a compromise.

Toris shook Gilbert's wrists to force his gaze back up, and he asked, "Are you still ready to die?"

Gilbert swallowed, and then he braced his shoulders up and nodded. Gilbert had accepted it back there on the road, Toris knew that, but wondered...

"Do you _want_ to die?"

That time, Gilbert was still.

A crinkle of Gilbert's brow, a twitch of his eyes, a familiar old crumple of his face, and then Gilbert hissed in air sharply, gave a strangled little laugh that sounded somewhat like a sob. He tried to smile, it fell halfway, and he answered, finally, "No."

Well, then. A good answer.

"I wanted to," Gilbert added, before Toris could speak, "I did. I'm still ready, and I— I'm scared, but I won't run away. I'm ready. I wanted to die, for a while, but now I don't. If you'll really come back with me, really, then I don't wanna die. Eduard died to save me, and I don't wanna make it for nothing if I can still get something out of here. If you'll really go with me, then I don't wanna die."

_Oh_. That _bastard_. Making it so hard for him, so hard, couldn't keep it up at this rate, he couldn't, not if Gilbert kept talking like that. Didn't Gilbert know that Toris didn't wanna die, either? That Toris wasn't even half as brave as Gilbert thought he was? Had Gilbert said so, right then, Toris would gladly have turned around.

Took Toris a while to settle down and find his voice, and he said, deeply, "You said you just wanted to see him one more time before you die. Is that still going to be enough for you? If I take you there, and you get inside, and you _see_ him, will that be enough? Will you be able to leave without him and go back, if you see him?"

Gilbert squinted his eyes, pursed his lips, clenched his jaw, and Toris could see how much that hurt him, how much Ludwig meant to him, how the thought alone of not being able to really follow through with the fantasy and take Ludwig back home was actually killing him. That look. All the same, Gilbert gathered his strength, will, resolve, started breathing through his mouth, and when he finally opened his eyes, they were full of tears and yet he was smiling a little. A deep, breaking whisper.

"Yeah. That will be enough."

Stupid, so stupid, so pointless, so useless, so ridiculous, so utterly worthless, all of that just for a look, but damn if Toris didn't smile then.

Crazy son of a bitch.

Toris loved it.

He let go of Gilbert's wrists, Gilbert's arms fell down, and Toris said, very sternly and with no room for argument, "You listen to me then. You get in, you shoot the other two if you have to, and when you find Ludwig, look at him. Look him right in the eye, and remember him. You look at him, get your fill of him, but hold your gun right there on him, too. Look at him all you want, but don't you touch him. Understand? If you really don't wanna die, if you really want us to go back, then you gotta look at Ludwig but you can't touch him."

Ludwig had spent so much time in that room, and Toris knew damn well that Gilbert haunting him was probably how the majority of those days had been spent. Ludwig seeing Gilbert suddenly before him in the house would not be instant death in the very slim chance that Ludwig was alone. If Gilbert and Ludwig somehow, someway, came face to face alone in a room, then Gilbert would be able to stand there before him and look at him all he wanted, because Ludwig would honest to god think he was just seeing things again.

Had happened to Toris all the time after that room. Took years and years for those hallucinations to fade and be forgotten, and Ludwig was far too fresh out of the dark.

If Gilbert could miraculously get Ludwig alone, then Ludwig wouldn't shoot him right off because Ludwig would just think Gilbert was all up in his head. Maybe they could even say a few words to each other, but if Gilbert reached forward and touched Ludwig and Ludwig could _feel_ him—

Disaster.

Gilbert may not have understood Toris, not really, but he stared at him for a damn long time and then nodded his head all the same.

"Okay. Alright, and—you'll find me, after?"

Well, then, if that were really the case then maybe they could actually find some sliver of survival. Might have been able to make it out, if Gilbert could really truly be satisfied with a mere glance. Their chances of success suddenly rested entirely on impulsive Gilbert's ability to control himself, and so Toris didn't get his hopes up in the slightest.

Still, Toris said, "I'll find you. Don't worry. We'll get that all settled when we get there."

A thoughtful silence, Gilbert's eyes turned into a paler pink color as the sun faded and light lowered, and then, suddenly, out of nowhere, Gilbert lifted up his head and took a deep breath. That smirk had come back, incredibly.

His voice was deep again, too, when he said, "I knew it. You just can't stay away from me."

Astounded by Gilbert's gall, by that damn smirk, Toris just stared at him and scoffed. His face may have looked quite unimpressed then, but inside he was pretty sure he was feeling damn content. Happy, even. Had almost forgotten what that was like.

Happiness. What a strange word.

Toris held Gilbert's gaze, and his voice wasn't as sharp as he had wanted it to be when he uttered, "Careful, or you might have an accident before you get there."

Gilbert's smirk turned into a crooked smile, and before Toris could keep on thinking about himself getting shot, Gilbert had reached out and grabbed his arm and yanked him forward. Somehow, it was more comfortable in Gilbert's arms when he was confident that like, when he was feeling bold, and even though he was still rather ill with the thought of using himself as live bait for an enraged Ivan, Toris wrapped his arms around Gilbert's neck and kissed him.

Better not to think so much about it. Made him jittery.

Doing so much, traveling so far, risking anything and everything, just for one look, one glance, one glimpse. Toris didn't know why he was doing it, really. Was it all worth it in the end, their deaths, just so Gilbert could stand before Ludwig and look at him?

In Gilbert's head, it was.

So, Toris carried on, because that was the only way, and maybe, just maybe, Toris wanted to see Ivan once more as well, just once more. Wanted Ivan to know that Toris had come back to taunt him, that Toris was the one Ivan should have feared all along. That Toris was the best Ivan would have ever had.

If Gilbert wanted to see Ludwig, then tenfold Toris wanted to see Ivan.

Gilbert said a look was enough, but Toris was also bracing himself for the very real possibility that when Gilbert was actually there in front of Ludwig, he would crack, and that glimpse just wouldn't be enough after all. Seeing Ludwig at long last, Gilbert would probably crack, and instead of obeying Toris and turning tail, Gilbert would try to reach out and touch Ludwig, would try to take him, and Ludwig would come out of that trance and shoot him.

One touch was all it would take, and Ludwig would shoot Gilbert.

Toris had very little faith in Gilbert's ability to control himself.

What could he do about it? Just sit back and wait, really, like every other time, and just keep moving.

Hoping.

And then, suddenly, one chilly day, it was almost time.

The third week of September.

One more day of driving, and then Mirny was before them.

Panic crept up. Stifling. Toris found that it was hard to breathe, hard to think. Hard to focus. The world seemed grey and misty, even though the fall leaves were so colorful outside. Felt like he had fallen into the ocean.

Terror.

He didn't want to go, didn't want to go back there, didn't want to see that town. Just wanted Gilbert to turn around. Wanted to go to West, with someone. But Gilbert wouldn't budge, and Toris knew better than to even bother asking, so when they settled into their room for the night, Toris tread quietly past Gilbert, went to the sink, and began to wash his uniform, as best he could.

Didn't know why.

Even now, he still wanted Ivan to be proud of him. Wanted Ivan to hold him in high esteem. Wanted to feel as he always had, wanted to look as he had always looked. A Red soldier. Lieutenant. He may not have become a soldier through the traditional means, but he was a soldier all the same, and he would present himself to the General now in impeccable state.

Gilbert watched him the whole time he scrubbed gently at the uniform, and maybe Gilbert didn't speak then because he could see the amount of care, the amount of love, the amount of adoration that Toris was putting into the act. Loved that uniform. Always had. Had loved that uniform from the very first day Ivan had put him in it.

Ivan.

He hung the uniform up above the heater, brushing it down with a comb to keep the threads perfectly smooth, and Gilbert was still quiet. Just watched him, as if fascinated. A few hours later, when the uniform had dried, Toris took it down and knew it was time.

He stood in front of the mirror, and pulled on his uniform for the first time in months.

Gilbert looked up at him from behind, caught his gaze in the reflection, and seemed to understand.

"We're there, aren't we?"

Toris averted his gaze back down to the embroidery on his shoulder, smoothing strands here and there, and just said, "Yes. Tomorrow. We'll be there tomorrow." He looked back up, briefly, and tried to smile at Gilbert. "Are you ready?"

Honestly, Gilbert shook his head.

It was left at that, and Toris returned his attention to himself. Glossing, as he always had. Everything had to be perfect. Gilbert seemed yet fascinated, watching very curiously, but had enough sense for once not to ask Toris why he was even bothering. Toris couldn't really have explained it if Gilbert had asked.

When Gilbert did finally open his mouth again, however, Toris found his words damn near infuriating.

"How come you don't have any medals?"

A simple question.

Pissed Toris the hell off all the same.

When Toris whirled around, Gilbert was sitting there cross-legged upon the bed, watching Toris with nothing less than affection, but when he saw the way Toris was suddenly looking at him, he ducked his head a bit and seemed abashed, almost nervous, as he tried to add, clumsily, "It's just... You know. On TV, and all, you always see soldiers with a buncha medals on their uniforms. I was just wondering why... You know. ...never mind."

Damn right 'never mind'.

Feeling angry and very offended in a way, Toris stared Gilbert down into a squirming pile of nerves, and then turned back to the mirror, and was almost startled.

Didn't recognize himself right off.

He could see, then, why Gilbert had suddenly looked so scared.

In that moment, Toris had looked at Gilbert the exact way that Ivan used to look at him when he had done something stupid. That same expression. Hadn't even known he was doing it. Honestly, had never even known that he could pull it off. Had he been doing that for years? Was that how he had really looked, when he had stared down Eduard and Ludwig? Good god—he looked just like Ivan.

Sometimes, it was hard to ignore the fact that, despite everything, Toris really was Ivan. The Ivan-Toris. Always there, beneath the surface. Would never get rid of it, for the rest of his life. Would always be there, because it always had been, in some way, even before he had ever met Ivan.

...maybe it would be better to go off on his own. Might not have been quite so safe for Gilbert, to be with him.

No one was ever safe with him.

Gilbert didn't say a word or move a muscle as Toris stood there and preened. As Toris took the uniform off later, he took his hair down, raised the scissors up and began to trim the tips of his hair, because even split-ends would be imperfect. Didn't want one single little detail to be wrong. Wanted to die flawlessly.

He looked over, a while later.

An awful pang of hurt.

Gilbert was sitting there, legs folded beneath him, staring at absolutely nothing, and yet Toris could see from the smile on his face that he was pretending that Ludwig was right in front of him. His hands gestured from time to time, and his lips were moving, even though Toris couldn't really hear anything he said. Practicing what he would say when Ludwig was in front of him, now that time was up.

Oh. That _hurt_.

Just wished it would have turned out the way Gilbert wanted. Wished that Gilbert wasn't putting everything into this. Wished he could have stayed detached, could have been more objective. Wished that Gilbert could have gone on without Ludwig.

For Gilbert, it was all or nothing. Didn't even consider that Ludwig didn't adore him anymore. Never crossed his mind at all, and hell, why would it? Even though Gilbert knew Toris' life story now, Gilbert would never once consider that Ludwig might just be another Toris, waiting there at the end of the line. Gilbert just didn't once think of that, and Toris, as always, didn't have the heart to tell him. Without Ludwig, Gilbert just wouldn't be able to carry on anymore.

Gilbert had agreed to Toris' command to not touch Ludwig, but would never have been able to understand why, because it was beyond Gilbert's breadth of comprehension to think that Ludwig would ever try to hurt him.

Gilbert said that a look would be enough, but Toris knew then, seeing him like that, that it wouldn't be. Knew in his heart that when Gilbert was in front of Ludwig, he wouldn't leave without trying to take Ludwig with him.

Knew it, and really, he had known it all along. It was likely that Gilbert had, too.

As always, Toris wasn't enough. Never had been, for anyone.

Dawn broke, far too soon.

In the morning, Toris pulled on his uniform, tied his hair back and up, shaved more neatly than he ever had in his life, stood up straight, and perched his cap upon his head. He brushed down his sideburns, he washed his face, he shined his cufflinks. Straightened and polished every button, pressed down every strand, brushed down every bit, shined his boots into mirrors, and maybe he kept himself so busy, maybe he was picking so much, maybe he was being so thorough because every time he stopped his hands started shaking.

Perfect. Had to be perfect. Ivan had demanded nothing less than perfection all these years, and Toris was going to give it to him.

If this was his last day on earth, then by god! He was going to look the part, he was going to act the part, was going to make himself proud, was going to stand there in that town and know, for once, that he had gotten Ivan over. He'd be the only man on the planet that had ever gotten one over on that son of a bitch, now that Eduard was dead. And even Eduard couldn't claim this kind of victory, because Ivan had already forgotten Eduard—Toris would be immortal.

He'd be the one that Ivan would always remember.

Love.

Ivan would never forget him after this. It would be impossible. Until the day Ivan died, he would never forget Toris. That was enough for Toris, as much as seeing Ludwig would be for Gilbert. Being in Ivan's memories.

Honestly, the only person that Toris could say that he had ever truly loved in his entire life was Ivan.

He was going to make Ivan look at him.


	52. Diamond Dust

**Chapter 52**

**Diamond Dust**

The road had ended.

The destination had been reached.

Home, sweet home.

The leaves had already started dropping from the trees. The temperature was cooling down rather sharply and drastically. The air was dry and cold. No fireflies anymore; they'd all gone. Toris just parked the car a good ways out of town at noon, and started leading Gilbert into the forest.

Didn't mention to Gilbert that there were bears and wolves and the odd tiger and whatnot, because it didn't even matter. No predator in that forest could have ever scared them more than the predator that was waiting there in that stone house.

As he always did, Gilbert walked behind Toris blindly, asked no questions, and trusted him without waver. They walked for hours, and it wasn't too horrible, really, because shortly after they had entered the trees Gilbert had trotted up to Toris' side and reached out to snatch his hand. Gilbert was scared, and so was Toris, so Toris just clenched Gilbert's hand like a little kid and dragged him along.

Oh, missed this place, so much. That awful squirm of homesickness in his stomach, these familiar forests, the scent of the pine and distant river. The smell of home, that could never truly be replicated anywhere else on the earth.

The last time he would ever see it.

The plan was essentially the same as the rough draft Toris had put together in his head. The only difference was that, when (if) Gilbert finally turned and left Ludwig behind, he was to run into the town and meet Toris at the prison, where there were cars that Toris knew he could easily steal. After all, he still had keys to every single door in this town. Still owned it, even if Ivan pretended that he didn't. Was just worried that Gilbert would get lost, despite how many times Toris had drilled the path into Gilbert's head and how many times he had repeated the directions aloud back to Toris. Worried that Gilbert, in fright, would forget or take a wrong turn.

Didn't expect to survive, so he wasn't really going to have his hopes dashed.

They came then to the top of the hill at the edge of the forest, and the town was visible below them at a distance. The house, alone there at the end.

The end of the line.

Gilbert had let go of his hand to come forward and look the town over from above, and Toris could see that his eyes had fallen immediately upon the vast diamond mine in the distance, gaping out like a whirlpool in the sea.

The sun was hanging just over the horizon.

Home.

Toris looked over at Gilbert, as Gilbert stared in awe at the mine, and he felt himself smile a little. And, just in case...

"Last chance," Toris said, lowly. "Be sure. This is the last chance to go back. Once we go down, it's too late. Be sure."

Hoping, under it all, that Gilbert would turn back, but knowing that he would never.

Gilbert was still for a moment, as he looked out into the dusk of the distant town, and he was pretty sure that Gilbert's hands trembled when he took that first step forward. Must have been so terrified, so pumped full of adrenaline, and yet Gilbert stepped forward then all the same, because he had known all along that it would come to this.

All Gilbert said then was, "I'm ready."

Right.

"Then," Toris said, as he came forward and clapped Gilbert on the back, "Let's go."

Gilbert's hands suddenly stopped trembling, he fell utterly still, and he exhaled.

Gilbert stared at the town, golden in the setting sun, that warm glow of the last days of fall, and Toris stared at Gilbert, because somehow he knew that it was going to be the last time he ever saw him. Tried to take in every bit of him. Tried to remember him. All those little details he had noticed over the months Toris committed to memory.

Would always and forever remember that moment.

Gilbert standing there in the orange light of sunset, hair silvery-gold and eyes lit up a beautiful shade of maroon, face so calm and peaceful, as if everything in Gilbert's frantic mind had suddenly found some happy place. Had seen Gilbert at his worst, and Toris knew that in that moment he was seeing Gilbert at his best.

Maybe that was the very first time that Toris could look at Gilbert and _understand_ why Ludwig had crossed the wall for him. Seeing, so briefly, what Ludwig had seen. Had never understood, not one single time, until he saw Gilbert in that moment.

Would never forget it.

Gilbert inhaled, deeply, and turned to look at Toris, and if he had committed Gilbert to his memory, then he was very certain then that Gilbert was doing the same with Toris.

Felt like eternity before Gilbert suddenly gave a slanted, charming smile, and said, in a voice that must have been what Gilbert had sounded like so long ago, "You're a real asshole, you know? You're such a jerk. You're the worst guy I ever met. And I'm so glad you came with me."

Seeing Gilbert as he had once been, confident and brazen and fearless. Strong and ruggedly handsome. Charming and rather appealing. Could say then, even, that he found Gilbert beautiful.

Made it harder, though, to let him go.

Gilbert's hand flew up, rested on Toris' cheek, a long stare between them, and Toris didn't care if Gilbert really saw him there or if he saw Ludwig. Didn't matter at all, because he felt happy then.

Toris clapped his hand on the side of Gilbert's neck, gripped, and Toris just replied, gruffly, "If I'm the worst guy you ever met, you must never have owned a mirror. Probably for the best, 'cause you're an ugly son of a bitch."

Gilbert gave a short laugh, a real damn laugh, for the first time, and Toris was hypnotized by him then, entirely. Could see what Gilbert would have been if everything had worked out alright in his head and in his life. Guess being on the brink had that effect, and Gilbert pressed forward suddenly, pushed their foreheads together, and his voice was rich and warm and so pretty when he whispered, "Please don't die. I kinda like ya."

Behind the sting of his eyes and the clutch of his throat, all Toris could say, thickly, was, "Likewise."

Gilbert stepped back then, looking the brave one for once, and smiled at Toris one final time, as the sun set. It hurt like hell to see Gilbert at his most handsome and sincere and sane just to let him go like that. To open up his hand.

The last time seeing Gilbert in daylight.

Toris took it with him, that memory, and started walking.

A call behind him.

"See you on the other side."

And Toris knew, as they split up and made in opposite directions, that Gilbert did not mean on the other side of that wall.

All Toris could do was walk on, and try his best, as he had his entire life.

Wanted so badly, more than he had ever wanted _anything_ , to look over his shoulder and back at Gilbert, but he didn't. Couldn't, because if he did he would lose his nerve, his courage, would founder, and would turn back.

He didn't look.

The sun was gone.

Stars coming out. The moon was full, but was frequently hidden by the white clouds rolling through, breaking through fronts from time to time and lighting the world up silver. Toris slunk down through the trees and towards the mine, and Gilbert went down to where Toris had told him to wait, in the forest behind the house.

Gilbert waited for Toris to draw Ivan out, and Toris could only hope that he would be able to dodge and sprint just fast enough to make it back to the mine without smacking straight into a hurdle in the form of Ivan's bullet. Could already see himself up in his head, bounding and zigzagging like a damn rabbit as Ivan bolted after him as the fox, bullets flying everywhere. Ha—actually made Toris laugh aloud, that thought, because that was just the kind of man he was.

If all went accordingly to this impossible plan, Toris would get Ivan far out beyond the mine, get around him, and when Ivan had to stop and catch his breath because he was a big son of a bitch, Toris would get enough of a head start to start backtracking around the town and make it out to the prison. There, if there was ever any shred of hope left in the world, Gilbert would be waiting. Toris would hijack a car, and then they would be on their way again, just like before, driving together. Gilbert would have his last look at Ludwig, and Toris would get his final blow in on Ivan. They'd be together, safe and ready to move on.

Yeah, sure. That would happen, alright, and Toris had no doubt whatsoever that he and Gilbert would be side by side driving together tonight, only it wouldn't be a car; would be in that little boat as they crossed the river into the gates of hell.

Supposed it was all just fair, in the end. No less than they probably deserved.

Toris reached the edge of the forest, and there was the vast field, littered with sparse trees here and there and the huge, clunking machinery used to work the mine. All quiet now, lit up in the moon and glittering with frost. Toris took a deep breath for courage, reminded himself that he was going to see that wonderful look of absolute awe on Ivan's face, and he finally darted out.

Shivered.

Too much adrenaline, anticipation.

Couldn't have asked for a better night, really. It was beautiful weather. Just cold enough to see his breath in the air, cold enough for the ground to glitter, but not unbearable, and without his coat Toris was quite comfortable yet.

Was so glad he had preened his uniform so much. Gave him more confidence than he otherwise would have ever had.

He passed by the mine, and found the dirt path that led into town. He took the first step up it, and was already envisioning Ivan's face. Ah, couldn't wait to see it, just couldn't. Couldn't wait to walk up the drive towards the house and have Ivan come charging out of the front door like a bull, never guessing that Gilbert would be on the completely opposite side.

Toris walked.

A glint in the moonlight.

Suddenly, randomly, everything went horribly wrong, and every bit of plan that Toris had clumsily put together was shredded apart.

He reached the first corner on the path, glanced up at that glint of silver, and there was Ludwig coming down towards the mine.

They fell still at the same time, stiller than each of them had likely ever been, not breathing at all, either of them, because there were no longer any puffs in the cold air.

Jesus fuckin' Christ, couldn't be—

They had just _started_ , there was no way everything had gone so wrong so quickly, he had to be seeing things, because there was no way that Ivan would have let Ludwig out of that house knowing that Toris was on the loose, no way. Couldn't fathom it, really couldn't, couldn't comprehend.

Ludwig wasn't even dressed to be outside, not really. Was just in slacks and one of Ivan's thin grey button-ups. Didn't have a coat, no hat or gloves. His gun was there, though, as always; could see the bottom of the holster, poking out from under his un-tucked shirt. Why was he out here like this? What could he have possibly been doing? A few strands of his hair had come down in the front, as if he had been running around.

Ludwig tilted his head, suddenly, as he often had when observing Toris, and Toris didn't even feel himself pull his gun, but it was suddenly pointing at Ludwig's chest all the same. Ludwig, entirely unprepared, just stood there, staring, and didn't move. Didn't try to pull his own gun, Ivan's gun once, on Toris in turn. Didn't move at all.

Just stared at Toris.

Couldn't breathe—

And then Ludwig's tilted head dropped down, face hidden from Toris, his shoulders shook just a little bit, and Toris could hear that Ludwig was laughing. Only, it wasn't a laugh Toris had ever heard before. Giggling, really, but not the same as Ludwig had given when he had shot those men in town. No, this was different, so different, and all Toris could think of then was that it sounded just like Natalia's giggling when she had been tormenting someone she hated.

The first thing Ludwig said when he caught his breath, as he stood there in the light of the white clouds and lifted his eyes up, was, "I'm supposed to shoot you, Toris. If I saw you again."

A clench of his chest. Yeah, that figured. Ivan obviously would have told Ludwig to shoot Toris on sight without even saying a single word to him.

Oh, god, the _sight_ of Ludwig then.

Could barely fathom it.

Hair lit up white, eyes silver and skin as pale as the hidden moon, he just fuckin' stood there, arms straight at his sides and stance steady and jaw set confidently. His broad shoulders were low and easy, neck arched downward so that he was looking up at Toris through his lashes even as he stood taller, and Toris was fairly certain that his blank face might have been threatening to twitch into a smile.

Didn't even flinch, with a gun right at him.

Ludwig terrified him, Christ almighty, was like looking right through into the other side of a black mirror. Once upon a time, Toris had opened the doors to the back of a vehicle and had been certain then that he had seen the most unspeakably terrifying thing anyone ever could, coming face to face for the first time with Ivan. Oh, had he been wrong, dead wrong, because what he felt right then, looking at Ludwig—

No words. Had no words at all, could never have described it.

Ludwig suddenly cracked his neck a little, reached up to smooth back his hair, and then he gave a light snort and took a step towards Toris. And even though Toris was the one with the gun, somehow it was Toris who felt the most in danger as Ludwig very slowly advanced on him.

Every single hair on his body was absolutely on end.

So genuinely horrified that he was numb, terror so strong that it had knocked his senses out. Had never felt that way, never, and he knew in that moment that Ludwig scared him a hundred times more than Ivan ever possibly could have.

Ludwig took another silent step.

Shit. Nothing was going according to plan. What the hell was Ludwig doing out here? Why wasn't he inside? Ivan had actually let him out, knowing that Toris was coming? Maybe restless Ludwig had just slipped out of his own accord. Maybe Ludwig didn't listen to Ivan anymore. Maybe Ludwig was in charge now, and it was Ivan following orders.

Ludwig's silver eyes pinned him down like knives.

What to do, what to do, because Ludwig took another step, Gilbert was waiting, and Toris couldn't breathe.

Couldn't get through Ludwig. Trying to get around Ludwig was as impossible as trying to get around Ivan himself. Just stood there, so dumbly, as Ludwig very slowly advanced on him from up the path.

Silence, as his gun shook in his hand and Ludwig stood firm and unafraid, and it was Ludwig who spoke first again.

"Where did you go, Toris? Tell me. I've been _so_ curious."

That voice was an unrecognizable as anything else there before him, perfectly smooth and silky and unruffled, so much higher than Ludwig's normal voice, so pleasant, even as that gun aimed straight at his heart. As if Ludwig were having a congenial conversation with an old lady.

Well, then. Time to not die, and that was Toris' favorite time of day.

Ivan might have known how to program Ludwig, but Toris knew how to push a few buttons here and there. Or had been able to before, anyway. He had been gone for a long while and maybe Ivan had patched those gaps. May as well give it a go. Literally had nothing to lose by trying.

Shaking off that horror enough to get his throat to open, though, was much harder than he had anticipated, as he bristled yet and everything in him, every single survival instinct, every cell, was telling him to turn and run away from the terrifying creation. Couldn't run—Gilbert was waiting, and even if he hadn't been, Toris couldn't flee because Ludwig would shoot him the second he turned his back if he tried to.

So Toris tried to keep his voice calm and steady as he replied, "I just went out for a while. You know how it is. You show up a little late sometimes. What are you doing out here, Ludwig? It's freezing. Where's your coat, huh? Aren't you cold, Ludwig?"

Silence.

He waited, hand shaking so badly now that he couldn't have hit the side of a fuckin' house, and he wasn't sure whether he was relieved or not when Ludwig finally did smile.

"I thought you'd gone for good. I thought you'd left me again."

Again?

Nope, no relief, just another wave of terror, as that pale smile was as fixed as those eyes. Ludwig's lashes lit up white when the moon came out from behind a cloud, and he took one more step.

"I didn't leave you, Ludwig. I wouldn't do that. I came back. We're brothers, remember?"

Ludwig didn't blink, didn't twitch, and seemed very thoroughly unfazed.

Toris was full of shit, and Ludwig knew it. Stupid. He wasn't any better than Feliks, when everything was said and done. Was no better, not at all. Would have sold Ludwig out very easily had it saved him. He'd'a left Ludwig, if he could have. Wouldn't'a looked back. He was only here now because of Gilbert, and Ludwig was not his brother.

But not Gilbert's, either.

Ludwig wasn't anyone's anything then, because he was something that no one could ever put a claim on. Wasn't even Ivan's then, not really, because Toris was so certain suddenly that Ludwig had come from the other side of some dark closet. Opening the door one day and there he just was, borne from the shadows, because he was very real and yet not there at all.

Scariest damn thing Toris had ever seen, and if he had thought that Gilbert's breadth of comprehension wasn't wide enough to see Ludwig's change, then Toris was guilty of that suddenly as well, because what he was seeing with his own eyes was somehow still so well beyond him.

No answer, nothing, and Ludwig just stared at him.

Ludwig took a another step forward, and then another, and then, god, god, he was close enough to push Toris' gun into his chest. Pushed himself right into the gun, pressed it there right into his heart, and didn't even seem to feel it. Ivan had once pushed himself into Feliks' rifle, and yet somehow that hadn't seemed half as terrifying as it was when Ludwig just smiled there at him.

A shift, a movement, and Ludwig reached out. Toris flinched. A hand fell on his shoulder, fingers squeezed muscle, and Ludwig didn't even seem to be truly aware of the pistol sticking into him.

"I missed you, Toris. I told him I'd shoot you, and if he were here, I would. But it's just us. I can pretend you were never here. I can spend some time in the dark for you."

Didn't deserve that, honestly, assuming of course that Ludwig actually meant it.

Oh, god help him, the awful thought he had then—to _shoot_ Ludwig.

Wanted to shoot him, he did, because this wasn't Ludwig, this was just something murky and radioactive that would destroy the world. Ivan had opened the floodgates to the abyss, and Ludwig's black water would drown the Earth. If Ivan could set fire to the planet, then Ludwig was the gas leak that would cause an explosion. Ivan had been dangerous enough on his own. It had been even more dangerous when Ivan had been commanding Ludwig, but now...

If Ludwig was suddenly the one commanding Ivan, then there was only destruction.

All Toris could think to do was ask, again, "Aren't you cold, Ludwig?"

Ludwig pushed forward suddenly against the gun, and Toris felt himself take an automatic step backwards. Ludwig took another. So did he. Paces backward, as Ludwig kept pressing him farther and farther back, and he was just so damn mesmerized and terrified that all he could do was follow Ludwig's lead and keep their eyes locked. Couldn't look away, couldn't, because it was the same as staring at the tiger; if you blinked and your gaze twitched, for just a second, it would lunge.

Couldn't break that gaze, because Ludwig would pounce.

His hand trembled. The gun was pointless, all show; he _couldn't_ shoot Ludwig. Not because it would kill Gilbert, not because he was scared, not because he had any glimmer of hope that Ludwig could come back. No. None of that. Couldn't shoot Ludwig, in the end, because even though Ludwig would cause only chaos and hurt, it wasn't his _fault_. Wasn't Ludwig's fault, it was Ivan's, for making him that way, and Toris couldn't shoot him, had he been mobile enough to do so. Not Ludwig's fault that he was that way. God help him, even though he knew he should have, needed to, was the right thing to do really, Toris couldn't have ever done it. Couldn't shoot Ludwig, would never have been able to.

When he looked at this dark Ludwig, all he really saw was himself if Ivan had loved him. Everything he would have been, so he couldn't shoot Ludwig.

Pebbles rustling as Ludwig pushed him back. Steps in the dirt.

The trees in the distance swayed in the wind. The scent of pine and dying grass. The glitter of mica in the moon.

Hooting of owls.

Something hard pressed into his back then, he jumped and sucked in a breath, and he realized that Ludwig had walked him back to the guardrail around the diamond mine. Cold steel.

Oh, shit, oh shit, what did he do? What could he do, what was he supposed to do, time was wasting and fleeing and Gilbert was waiting there in the trees, Gilbert was so impatient, was so antsy, and if Toris didn't show soon then he was going to just go right to the house and get himself killed—

Ludwig suddenly lowered his right hand, his left still very much clenching Toris' shoulder, and now the gun was within two sets of fingers. So stupid. He was so stupid. Ludwig pried the gun gently from him with little protest. Seemed that Ludwig could fascinate him now as much as Ivan ever had.

Toris had always been so steady with the gun. When he held his gun, his hand never shook, never, everything within him was rock-steady, always had been. This was the first time that his hand had ever betrayed him, had trembled. Not once. Never, and yet that time, his courage had failed. For the first time, Toris was successfully disarmed. Hadn't thought it possible at all, but Ludwig had made it look so easy.

Couldn't fight off Ludwig's stare. No one and nothing could, because suddenly staring into Ludwig's eyes was the same as staring into the black hole. By the time you got close enough to see it, it was too late; the event horizon couldn't be escaped.

Space.

And it occurred to Toris, then, that Ludwig would probably shoot him with his own gun and then kick him down into the mine below.

Now that Toris was disarmed, Ludwig's posture changed. He straightened up, lifted his head back up to stare down at Toris, his shoulders rolled up and back, and his smile seemed much more sincere and very, very amused. He reached out, patted Toris' cheek with a snort, playfully, and shot him a wink. Another quick giggle, and then out of nowhere Ludwig was turning his head this way and that, as if looking for something, and all Toris could do was stare at his gun.

What a damn feeling it was, and not a good one, having his own gun in someone else's hands, as Ludwig suddenly raised it up to scratch at his temple with the muzzle, scoping the scenery out yet with those endless eyes, looking around relentlessly.

A scary sight, Ludwig peering around, line in his forehead as he raised his brows up and kept that gun up near his own temple, smile still on his face and looking so pleased.

What was he looking for?

Glinting in the dim light, as diamond dust and rocks lit up.

Toris sucked in another breath, tried to play it off as a laugh, and said, "Ludwig! Are you gonna shoot me, Ludwig?"

Ludwig. He hadn't been around to tell Ludwig who he was. Hadn't been there to say that name, and maybe Ludwig had a different one now. Maybe he had no name at all, because he didn't really seem human. Felt to Toris then that Ludwig was more like something someone had accidentally conjured up during a ritual gone wrong, and maybe that was why he had never parents, Christ—

A movement. Again, Toris flinched.

Ludwig didn't turn the gun around on him, though, and instead suddenly tucked it into his belt, underneath his shirt behind his back. He didn't once release Toris from that piercing stare, and for whatever stupid reason it occurred to Toris that Ludwig could now very easily stare down Ivan. Invincible. Ivan would be the one now trapped under Ludwig's eyes.

Toris' heart hammered loudly enough to hurt his chest.

A motion, a jolt of panic, fear, as Toris could only stand breathless and so motionless when Ludwig suddenly reached out his hands, grabbed Toris' face, leaned forward, and kissed him upon the forehead.

Felt so cold then, utter ice, chilled down to everything, and the shudder he felt forced every single muscle to move along with it, it was so powerful. Wasn't even sure then what he felt. An awful mix of terror and fascination and elation and hate and fear, everything possible. Only Ivan had ever been able to make him feel that, but so too now could Ludwig. He just stood there and stared at Ludwig in that trance, hardly breathing and so captivated.

Ludwig pulled back, then, as quickly as he had leaned forward, and finally took a step back to distance them. The spell was broken, and Toris snapped out of it with an inhale and a rush of adrenaline so powerful it made him dizzy.

Ludwig's look had suddenly hardened, right back into that expression of annoyance and distaste that he had been showing Toris before he had left, as if he had grown bored.

"Get out of here, Toris. Don't come back. Or I will shoot you. Go."

A look of finality.

Toris didn't doubt for a second that Ludwig meant it.

Ludwig's patience and interest in Toris had ended for good. Ludwig had only said what was needed to get the gun out of Toris' hand. The task was complete. The little kiss had just been a permanent goodbye. That was the last time Ludwig would ever speak to him, and if they crossed paths again that night, Ludwig would shoot him.

Just couldn't figure out, at first, why Ludwig hadn't shot him there to begin with. Ludwig would shoot him if they ran into each other again, so why not just shoot him now and get it over with? Why wait? Ludwig felt nothing for Toris, so why not just kill him?

Something simple, actually : just because Ivan wasn't there. More of an instance of 'when Ivan's away, Ludwig will play' sorta thing. That was what Ludwig had been looking for. Ivan. Making sure that somewhere, somehow, someway, Ivan wasn't watching. Ivan hadn't been, so Ludwig did what he wanted, and for whatever reason Ludwig just hadn't felt like shooting Toris at that particular moment. It was boring to Ludwig, maybe.

Toris had been spared only because Ivan hadn't been there and because Ludwig had decided he had more interesting things to do. Had Ivan been there, of course Ludwig would have shot him, but Ivan hadn't been, so Ludwig had been playing around a little, like the way a cat paddled around before pouncing. Ludwig spared Toris in that instance because it had been fun for him, and maybe, in some way, Ludwig was tormenting him by prolonging the inevitable. Maybe Ludwig was just letting him fly a little then to see how far he could get.

Torturing him without even touching him.

Oh.

Where was Gilbert now? The plan had been delayed, the time had been set wrong, and Gilbert, so impatient, had probably tried to go the house anyway. Ludwig would hardly be more sympathetic to Gilbert, not now. Ludwig had let Toris go, perhaps, because Toris had never wronged him. Gilbert had, in Ludwig's mind because that was what Ivan spent so long planting there, and for that Ludwig wouldn't let Gilbert off so easily.

Ludwig wandered off, feet making hardly any noise as he went.

Toris watched him go, and knew that there was a new plan—get the fuck out of there, and yesterday.

Couldn't go to the house, not with Ludwig going up that path and not knowing where exactly Ivan was. Could only turn back and get the hell back into the forest, and hope that dumb fuckin' Gilbert was still waiting in the trees, that he hadn't gone down. Couldn't go after him, if he had.

He turned on his heel, and meant to bolt right back past that mine and into the forest. Made it a many good few meters, too, into the cluttered field, before he ran into another obstacle.

He had gotten rid of Ludwig. He found something else in his stead.

Ivan.

Just ran through sleeping machinery, abandoned for the night, turned his head to the side and there Ivan was, fuckin' hell, just coming up out of nowhere from behind a crane.

Why were they out here? What had they been doing? What the hell had they been fuckin' _doing_? Wandering around out here like ghosts? What could they have possibly been doing? Were they admiring the forest at nighttime? Target practice, to sharpen Ludwig's eyes in dim light? Stargazing? Was Ivan courting Ludwig out here, amongst trees and stars and diamond dust? Using that instilled Russian romanticism to woo Ludwig somehow further into the shadows?

They had been separate; hide and seek? Was Ludwig eluding Ivan in some sort of game? Were they running around town trying to pin each other down?

Or maybe, more likely, Ludwig really had escaped the house in a fit of boredom and Ivan was trying to hunt him down and bring him back inside, but Ludwig just kept playfully hopping away from him like a disobedient cat.

Toris skidded to a halt mid-sprint, knocked senseless once more, and Ivan had been walking, falling as still suddenly as Toris as they stared at each other. Couldn't be more than three meters between them, so close, and Ivan had fallen so completely still that Toris almost thought he had just run into a very ill-placed Soviet statue.

Good god, could anything else have possibly gone wrong for him that night?

A sharp inhale, but it came from Ivan, not Toris.

Ivan. The sight of him stunned Toris into immobility, thrust him into the atmosphere, as that awful wave of emotion hit him over the head.

Ivan.

_Love_.

Damn near stupefying, that burst of adoration and fear and hate and everything else.

Oh, that _man_ —! How Toris loved him.

So damn beautiful while at the same time horrifying, the most spectacular and also the most terrifying thing Toris had known, his entire world right there before him, the reason he had ever gotten out of bed, the reason he had had for living at all.

Ivan.

There he was. Could scarcely believe it. Oh, damn, was Toris' heart suddenly hammering away. That glorious son of a bitch. Toris stared at Ivan then harder than he had ever stared at anything, feeling so elated and so wrathful at the same time.

Ivan's hair was a mess, uncombed and sticking out every which way, being blown as it was by the gentle breeze. Heavy stubble on his face. Just like Ludwig, he wasn't dressed for the outdoors in any sense, wearing wrinkled black sweatpants and an even more wrinkled button-up shirt that was barely even buttoned up at all. No coat, no hat, no gloves, no belt, nothing. Probably didn't even have socks on under his boots. As if he had been in bed and had rolled out to run outside in a hurry.

And Toris was beyond certain then, just at the look of Ivan, that Ivan really _had_ been out here trying to corral Ludwig. Had been darting around and going in circles trying to get Ludwig to sit still long enough to grab him. Must have been in bed, ready for sleep, and Ludwig had just decided to get up and writhe out of Ivan's clutches and straight out the door, and Ivan had had no choice but to trot helplessly after elusive and clever Ludwig.

Ivan had been outside to coax and pin his obstinate cat, and had found his lost dog instead.

Ivan looked positively dumbfounded.

The first thing that Toris really noticed, beyond the beautiful, overwhelming sight of him, was that Ivan didn't have his gun. Had been unprepared, for once, running outside after Ludwig as he likely had, maybe only because Ludwig was always armed and so Ivan just hadn't thought about it.

Ivan was unarmed.

Well. Actually, needed to rephrase. Not armed, at least in the sense that he was carrying a gun. Ivan didn't need a gun to kill someone, anymore than Toris or Ludwig did.

Toris could already see it up in his head : after a short stand-off, Ivan would probably lunge forward, so fast that Toris could barely see him, and this time maybe Toris would actually have the gall to try and fight for his life. Couldn't stand up to Ivan for long, though, not long, and he knew it. Toris had always relied on smarts, but he was strong, too. Had to be, to be in the Red Army, to be in Ivan's world. But even though he could have taken down any normal man, Toris couldn't ever have taken down Ivan, because Ivan had been trained to kill, really trained. Ivan had been taught to feel no pain, to never stop. Ivan had been beaten into a pulp by his superiors until he had learned systema, until he had been able to hold them off, until pain didn't faze him anymore. Toris had never been trained like that. Eventually, Ivan would overpower him, one way or another, and really the only thing left to question was whether Ivan would pin him down in the dirt, knees on arms, and strangle him to death, or choose to beat him to death with those iron fists and steel-toed boots instead.

Toris couldn't really say which would have been worse.

Ivan didn't need a gun.

A long, breathless look, as he and Ivan stared at each other. Ivan seemed absolutely flabbergasted, and Toris might have felt a little proud for it.

So, then. Ha.

Ivan sure had been thinking of him, alright, that was obvious. Ivan had been undone, had been fretting, panicking, had spent every day waiting for Toris. Ivan was astounded that Toris had had the nerve to return.

He said as much soon after, his soft, breathy voice barely rising above the gentle wind.

"You came back. You really came back."

Toris hoped, beyond anything, that Ivan was realizing he had made a mistake again. That Toris really could be brave, after all. That Ivan could have had something there, maybe, if he had given an effort. That if Ivan had put effort into Toris, Toris could have been great. Hoped he was realizing that right now.

Ivan kept staring.

The longest that he and Ivan had ever stared at each other, because it was the first time that Toris had been brave enough to hold his gaze.

Felt so brazen now, so bold, so breathlessly fearless. Ivan still terrified him, absolutely, so he couldn't have really described what gave him the nerve to look at Ivan like that. Maybe Gilbert had emboldened him as much as the other way around. Maybe because the bond had been broken.

Toris just fell loose all of a sudden, chin dropping as much as Ludwig's hand, shoulders easy and hands lax, and he stared at Ivan with a sudden scoff. Felt suddenly so damn relaxed.

Ivan had been everything. Ivan had been boss. Ivan had been god. Ivan had been the reason Toris had burned the world. Ivan had been the captain. Ivan had been the one pushing the buttons, the moon that caused the tides, the one pulling the strings, the one that had made Toris dance, the one that had made him function, the one that had made him _him_.

Everything.

Nothing now.

Or maybe Toris was so brave then, so bold, so unbothered, because he had just gotten done looking into Ludwig's bottomless eyes, and nothing Ivan could ever do now would scare him. Suddenly, Ivan was no longer the most sinister man alive, and Toris didn't fear him. If Ivan was a god, then Ludwig was just the black of space above him, and nothing Ivan could do then from that moment would shake Toris.

Had seen _oblivion_.

Ivan was nothing.

Again, Ivan whispered, almost dazedly, "You came back."

Only the bravest men trekked of their own volition into Siberia. Ivan could see it now, and so Toris stood up straight, lifted his chin, rolled his shoulders back, and that might have been the first time in his life that he himself had ever actually been able to perfectly emulate Ivan, because he _felt_ like Ivan in that instant. Felt better. Felt haughty. Felt in control. Impervious. Invincible. Untouchable. In that instant, in that split second, Toris felt like Ivan.

Felt like a god.

And it felt goddamn _glorious_.

Toris was sure that his brow had gotten lofty and his lips had curled into a sneer when he asked, simply, "Are you proud of me?"

Ivan just stood there.

Toris held his arms out at his sides, ever so slightly, mockingly, the very image of Ivan. Absolute adrenaline rush. Had never felt anything like this.

High.

Ah, to know what Ivan had really felt all those years. Addictive.

"Tell me you're proud of me," Toris pressed, his own voice stronger and louder than Ivan's, and this time there was no tremble in his hands, no waver, no fear. His voice was perfectly silvery and calm, as Ivan's always had been. "Tell me. Say it. Tell me you're proud of me. Tell me I did a good job. Tell me you couldn't have done it without me. Say it. Tell me how _proud_ you are. Tell me how brave you think I am. Huh? What's the matter? Can't you talk? Say something. Tell me how much you miss me. Don't you miss me, huh? Haven't you missed me? Haven't you been thinking about me? You can't do anything without _me_. Say it. Admit it. Without me, you're just a man. You couldn't have done any of this without _me_. Say it."

Ivan didn't utter a word, didn't move a muscle. Still staring at Toris with that astonished look upon his face. Thought maybe, though, that Ivan's hands had twitched at his sides.

One more taunt, one more demand, one more sentence fell from Toris' lips, as he took a bold step forward, hands ever there at his sides.

"Tell me you _love_ me."

Ivan should have loved Toris, because Toris had loved him for ten years.

Toris took another stride, wide and aggressive, and Ivan, as entranced then as Toris had been under Ludwig, took a step back.

Ivan stepped _back_.

Extraordinary.

They were _family_. They were linked. They were connected. Toris may have been nothing without Ivan, but without Toris, Ivan would have been irreparably damaged. Would never have been where he was now. Ivan had built Toris, but Toris had been the foundation beneath Ivan's feet. Toris had been what had made Ivan's life smooth and limitless. Toris was what had really made Ivan truly powerful beyond compare.

Could see it, now that it was gone.

Ivan would never forget Toris.

Seeing Ivan so caught then under his eyes, his, Toris of all people, Toris felt that he wouldn't even care if he died then, because his entire life had suddenly been justified and made good use of, when he took one more step forward and Ivan took one more back.

Pushing Ivan back without once touching him, as Ivan had done to others for countless years. Ivan's pupils were dilated as could possibly be, jaw clenched, and Toris could see him suddenly swallow.

The wolf had been forced back by the dog.

Ivan may have lived here, but all along, it had been Toris that had truly run this town.

For one delirious, surreal moment, Toris almost thought that he could have just sneered and lowered his arms then and walked slowly away, and Ivan would be too utterly mystified to even lift a hand to him. As Ivan had evaded death so many times by being far too hypnotizing to shoot, so too Toris thought he could just walk away and leave Ivan paralyzed in his wake.

Was so certain he could have done it.

Didn't get his chance to try it—a footstep to the side. Toris looked over, so haughtily, still sneering and so confident, still in that high, and Ivan looked too, eyes so wide and breathing through his mouth and pulse hammering in his neck.

Ludwig had come back.

That black mirror shattered.

With Ludwig's appearance, the flipped tables returned to their rightful places; Ivan woke up with a vengeance, and Toris' hands started to shake. The reversal was broken. Toris was petrified again, but not of Ivan. Ludwig was back, after all. That spinning pulsar.

Ludwig blocked the path. Ivan blocked the forest.

Where to run—

And then, suddenly, that pale, wide-eyed Ivan had lowered his arm down and behind him, reached down into his waistband at the small of his back, and pulled out a gun.

Oh. Shit. Ivan had had a gun after all. Had just never hidden it like that before, not once. Had never carried a gun like that, and must have grabbed it at the last second on his way after Ludwig.

Now, Toris was afraid, alright. That illusion of being in control evaporated, and Toris' mind barely had time to go into flight mode when Ivan took a stalking step forward and pulled the trigger.

The sound was too loud in the still air.

A miss.

Ivan had missed. Missed, because for once in his life, Ivan's hands had been shaking. And he wasn't happy about it. A snarl, an actual _snarl_ as if from that wolf itself, a jerk, another aim, but Toris had already bolted, sprinting as fast as he could, darting here and there in the midst of that field of mine equipment, like that rabbit he had envisioned, as Ivan kept on firing at him.

Kept missing. Toris wouldn't sit still long enough.

Could hear Ivan's heavy footsteps behind him in pursuit.

A furious shriek from behind.

" _Toris_! Hold still! Fuckin' sit still!"

Hardly! Yeah, sure, he was gonna sit still, alright, once he was back in the fuckin' car and on his way to the West. Then he'd sit still.

Hadn't run so hard, so fast, ever, nearly snapped his damn ankle at the sharp turns he was making, skidding about as he was.

As it had been once before, heavy Ivan was goddamn _fast_ , spurred on by adrenaline and hate.

More gunshots, one hitting the machinery nearby and ricocheting off far too close to him.

Ivan's voice was higher, thinner, more furious, breaking and cracking more and more every time he screamed.

"Toris! Don't you _run_ from me! You come _back_!"

No, thanks!

How many shots had that been? How many?

Couldn't think.

Didn't need to, suddenly, because Ivan shrieked a curse and Toris could hear clicking.

The gun was empty.

Ivan pulled the trigger long after the chamber had been spent, and when Toris looked over his shoulder briefly, he looked positively livid for it. Had never once, not once, seen Ivan so angry, not even that night that Eduard had run out, not even when Ivan had been ready to shoot Toris there in the office. Almost hadn't known anyone could be so _angry_. If Ivan had dropped dead of an aneurysm right then and there, Toris would have felt no shock, he was so goddamn furious.

Toris' sprint dropped into a trot, because there were no bullets left and Ivan couldn't keep up that pace.

He fell still for just a moment, sucking in air and trying to catch his second wind, and he looked over his shoulder again. Ivan was lagging far behind him, sweating and panting, and Toris watched him carefully as he caught his breath to make sure he was ready to run again. Gasping and bent over to rest his hands on his knees, sweating, Toris just smiled at Ivan, so breathlessly, and laughed to himself.

Ah. That had been almost as satisfying as staring that bastard down, that run.

Exhilarating.

And Toris would have thought that salvation was near, if it hadn't been for fuckin' Ludwig trotting up behind them, apparently keen to watch the action. Ivan wasted no time in grabbing Ludwig by the arm, wrenching him forward, snatching his gun, and aiming it at Toris.

Goddammit—another surge of adrenaline, another awful second of his hair standing on end, staring once more down the barrel of a gun.

A click, another aim, and Ivan was ready to take Toris out for good.

Once more, Toris bolted when Ivan pulled the trigger. Just in time, as the bullet whizzed by.

The chase was on again.

More shrieking from behind, just as breathless and cracking and shrill as before, as Ivan tried to run and scream and shoot all at the same time.

"Sit _still_ , Toris! Fuckin' bastard—I'll be _proud_ of you if you sit _still_!"

Another shot, far too close by.

" _HOLD STILL_!"

A scramble, a sense of desperation.

The mine was suddenly right in front of him.

Couldn't run around it. He was running out of options, but Ivan was running out of bullets. A bullet whizzed by his leg then, grazing him just barely, and Toris didn't see much choice; he leapt forward, bounded over the railing, and slid down. Not a second too soon, either, as what he hoped was the final bullet hit the railing.

He hit the first road, and then quickly rolled over and slid down onto the next one. He slammed into the dirt, the wind knocked out of him, and stared up in a daze.

No more bullets, surely, had he counted right?

Ivan reached the railing and grabbed it up in his left hand, leaning far over and meeting Toris' eyes in a second. He aimed the gun at Toris, and damn, Toris couldn't even breathe yet and was utterly helpless there, sprawled on the road.

Had he counted right—?

Stared into the barrel of that gun and right into the void.

Ivan pulled the trigger.

Nothing. Just a little click.

No more bullets.

Toris inhaled as air came back, he gave a gasp that was almost a laugh, staring up at Ivan with wide eyes and feeling so fucking tired. Couldn't even move. Just laid there, as red-faced Ivan stared down at him in fury. Felt good to lay down, even then.

His damn uniform was ruined, covered in dust and dirt as it was. Shame.

A snarl of frustration, as Ivan kept on squeezing the trigger long after there had only been clicking. Panting for air so heavily that Toris could hear his chest rattling, even all the way below, forehead gleaming with sweat, hair plastered to his forehead, and Toris had never seen Ivan look so unraveled. Had come absolutely undone.

No more bullets, the bastard, and Toris would have laughed then if he hadn't suddenly remembered that hidden under Ludwig's shirt was Toris' loaded gun. Remembered, because Ludwig was suddenly there at Ivan's side, resting folded arms on the top of the railing, chin perched above them, and Ludwig just stared down at Toris with a wide smile, like he was watching the best show on earth.

Shit.

Toris could only look up and wait for Ludwig to hand the gun over to Ivan. He wouldn't have been able to dodge anymore. Woulda just waited to be shot. Had nothing left, not a thing, had given all of his energy to that effort.

But Ludwig didn't move.

Ludwig just stood there, smiling away, but he didn't reach under his shirt and hand Ivan that pistol. What was he saving it for? Could he sense a need for it in the near future? Or did he just not want Ivan to know that he and Toris had already come across each other, and that Ludwig had done as he pleased while disobeying a direct order to shoot him on sight?

Who could say, now, the way Ludwig was.

Ivan snarled and huffed and panted and suddenly wrenched open the gun in his hand as if to confirm that it was really empty, and when he saw that it indeed was, Ivan raised up his arm, and pitched the gun as hard as he could at Toris' head with a strangled cry of rage.

Like everything else, it missed.

All Toris could do then was smile, crookedly, and drag his hand up to his forehead in one final, mocking salute to that son of a bitch.

Ludwig gave a loud bark of laughter.

Ivan could have just imploded, from the look of him.

Ivan's hands gripped the railing as he leaned so far over he could have toppled right in, and he shrieked, furiously, "Yeah, you _lay_ there, Toris! You fuckin' _lay_ there! I'll get you one way or another! Just fuckin' _wait_! Just you wait! I'm gonna fuckin'— I'm gonna— You don't— Fuck, you—"

Couldn't even talk anymore, suddenly, couldn't form coherent speech he was so mad, and Ivan suddenly hauled himself up. A step up onto the railing, as if Ivan really intended to slide down the ore and dust just so he could throttle the life out of Toris.

Well, guess he was gonna be strangled to death after all. Supposed he wouldn't complain too much, really, because it would be a hell of a lot better than being shot in the stomach.

The sound of Ivan's other boot on the railing.

And then a hand, pale and eerily graceful, suddenly reached out and fell on Ivan's shoulder.

Ludwig.

Ivan fell still, turned his head to Ludwig, and Ludwig was speaking. Could see his lips moving, but couldn't hear his whisper. Didn't care what Ludwig was saying, anyway, because Toris was so fascinated, even then, by Ivan. Had fallen still in a second under Ludwig's touch, as if it had frozen him, and Toris could see that, even in that impossibly red cloud of rage, Ivan was pinned under Ludwig's gaze.

Knew it. Had known it somehow, the second he had looked into Ludwig's eyes.

Ivan just stood there, still breathing through his mouth and eyes so wide, nostrils flaring, hands clinging to the railing and feet up on the first rung, and he seemed absolutely hypnotized by Ludwig. Ivan didn't slide down to murder Toris, despite his oaths, and suddenly had stepped down back onto the ground.

Toris dared a glance at Ludwig.

A slanted smile there, narrowed eyes, and a lowered chin. A look of outright satisfaction, and of triumph.

Toris figured it all out then, figured out everything, and he probably should have realized it long ago.

All of Ludwig's actions, every time Ludwig had saved his ass, every time Ludwig had taken Ivan's wrath away. Every time Ludwig had slunk around Toris and had interacted with him when Ivan wasn't there. Had been a game alright, but not one that Ludwig was playing for amusement. Ludwig had been testing the ground not beneath his own feet, but of that beneath Ivan's. Seeing how far he could push Ivan and bring him back. Seeing how quickly he could wrangle Ivan. Seeing what set Ivan off and what brought him down.

Toris had just been a good start for Ludwig. A practice run.

From the very day Ludwig had first stepped out of _that_ room, Toris had lost him, and just hadn't known it at all. Had tried so hard to keep him after that, when he really hadn't been there anymore.

No going back.

Ivan had lost control of Ludwig in every way that wasn't physical. Had gotten in so far over his head, had pushed and pushed and pushed, and now that he _had_ Ludwig, now that he had broken down that wall, he suddenly couldn't ever hope to turn the tide. If Ludwig did what Ivan said then, it was only ever really because Ludwig wanted to. Ludwig had surpassed Ivan. That awful look on his face then. As if Ludwig commanded the universe in its entirety.

In this one single instance, however, Ludwig's triumph may have been partially misplaced.

Ivan had slid off the railing, alright, but not because of Ludwig's hand, and not because of whatever Ludwig had whispered.

Something else.

A light had flipped on in Ivan's mind, and it must have been so clear that it completely overrode that rage. Toris could see it then; that wide-eyed look. The way Ivan's brow had crinkled and yet his eyes were as wide as they could be, the way that Ivan's lips parted but no words came out, the way his knuckles were white as they clenched the railing, the way his entire body had seemed to tense up.

That look of understanding. Comprehension.

A sudden scope around the mine, over both shoulders.

And Toris knew that Ivan had _remembered_ at last that somewhere out here, Gilbert was lurking. That Gilbert obviously wasn't far behind Toris. Ivan knew it. Just in that breathless, almost horrified look. Somewhere in those eyes, Toris almost thought he saw a little betrayal. The first time he'd ever seen anything like that on Ivan's face. Was that hurt? Hoped so. Hoped Ivan was feeling hurt, was feeling betrayed, was scared.

Welcome to Toris' world, ya miserable son of a bitch.

Hoped Ivan was hurting.

A long stare, a sudden shake of Ivan's shoulders, and not in anger, and then Ivan released the railing.

And just like that, with one whirl, Ivan was gone. Ludwig, snatched up in Ivan's iron grip, was dragged along behind him. Toris was left alone.

Oh, Gilbert. He was dead.

Knew it, knew there was no chance, no hope, because it had been so long now, and impulsive Gilbert could never have waited, wasn't still waiting. Gilbert had gone down to the house, Toris knew it, and there was nothing more he could do.

An awful, vulnerable moment of gathering his strength and catching his breath, and then Toris sat up at the waist, rolled over, somehow pulled himself up to his feet, and looked around at the fuckin' mess he had gotten himself into. The road around the mine was unfathomably long. Would take him hours to run up it like that and get out, and by then Ivan would have already murdered Gilbert and would have come back for Toris.

The only chance he had at all was to try to climb up.

He looked up, saw the steep incline, the loose dirt, the great distance, and felt no hope. None. He couldn't get out of here before Ivan came back, and he knew it. Realized it, accepted it.

That being said, he was gonna fuckin' _try_ , anyway, because he wasn't gonna go down like that, wasn't gonna just plop down cross-legged and watch the stars until Ivan came back with more bullets. He'd come too damn far, had done too much, had given so much, had felt that wondrous sense of immortality, and so he'd be damned if he was gonna go out like that.

Hell no. Not like that, not tonight.

With a rush of adrenaline that he desperately needed, as those survival instincts kicked in again, Toris dug his hands into the dirt, steadied his boot, and tried to scale the incline.

Made it a couple of meters, maybe, before the loose dirt betrayed him and he started sliding back down. Tried to dig his boots in, tried to grab anything, anything at all, but there was nothing but dust and suddenly he was right back where he started.

He tried again, and made it farther.

And then he slid back down.

Frustration, rising, and so was hysteria. Gilbert had said he was ready to die, and maybe Toris had pretended that he was too but that was a lie, really, because Toris hadn't ever wanted to die and wasn't ready, not at all.

Didn't wanna die.

The slag kept giving out beneath his fingers, and no matter how hard Toris tried to scratch his way up, he just couldn't seem to get a foothold.

Gilbert was dead, and Toris didn't want to join him, because he was a coward, under it all. By the time he got out, if he got out, it would be far too late. Couldn't catch up to them. Couldn't get to Gilbert in time, and wasn't even going to try. Just wanted out. Gilbert was dead, and if Toris couldn't climb up out of this mine then he was dead, too.

Kept sliding back down.

Oh. How it gone this way?

...Gilbert had stood there in the sunset, just staring down at the town, so calmly. Had looked so peaceful, something Toris had never once felt.

Somewhere down the line, Toris pushed his face into the wall of dirt and cried for the first time in forever, sobbing and gasping into the dust and feeling so pathetic. So frustrated. It wasn't fear for Gilbert that made him cry then. It wasn't terror.

He didn't know why he cried then, except for that maybe everything was _done_.

Over.

The line of finality had been crossed. He was here, where he was sure he never would be again, Gilbert was here, Ivan was here, and Ludwig was here. Everything had come around. Full circle. The game ended here. So overwhelmed.

It was done, all of it, and unless he wanted himself to be done too then he had to get out of here.

Finished. It was over.

They had lost, as Toris had always known they would, and yet even though he had been so prepared for that, it still hurt. So much more than he thought it would. Hadn't known it hurt that _much_ , that it would feel like this, that it could ever feel like this.

Stood there for a long damn minute, crying into that dirt wall, hands cupped around his face and inhaling dust.

It was finally finished.

Gilbert should have just gone back home, and Toris wished that he could have been enough for Gilbert to ever _want_ to.

Come with me, he had said.

Maybe, if Toris had ever just sat down and gathered the courage to actually ask, just maybe Gilbert would have gone back with _him_.

Would never know.

Finished.


	53. Echo Through the Night

**Chapter 53**

**Echo Through the Night**

In all of his life, Gilbert had never felt such abject horror as he did the second he saw that house.

Scariest place he'd ever seen.

That house; had come straight from his nightmares, he knew it.

The full moon broke out from behind the clouds, as Gilbert waited there hidden back in the trees, and he saw suddenly the house in its entirety.

Made him shudder, every bit of him, and he hadn't ever thought something as simple as a house could really ever make him feel that. Wasn't a house, exactly, so much as more of a manor. Too big to be a house, and too scary. Stone and tall, standing there so white in the moonlight against the dark sky. The frozen grass was glittering all around in the massive yard, and yet somehow that just made the house seem so much colder. A few short pines here and there before it, a long drive obscured by a hill and a curve. Looked like ice, all of it, and the leafless trees around didn't help matters.

Frozen house in a frozen land, how appropriately droll.

Wished Toris was there to hold his damn hand, because he was fuckin' scared, pitiful as that was, just looking at that house.

He lied low within the forest, crouched down and hand against a tree for balance, and just watched.

Hated having to sit and wait, hated it, but had no choice.

As the time passed, he tried to imagine Ludwig, sitting there in that house, waiting, too, but somehow that didn't make him feel any better. Made it so much worse, because he couldn't stand thinking of Ludwig being trapped in that stone prison. Even looked like some medieval damn fortress or something, with that gaudy tower there on the side. Felt like he had dropped down back in time there.

Tried hard to just envision himself being the knight, coming to save the damsel from the tower, but couldn't really take it to heart much as Toris' words kept on running through his mind. That fantasy, no matter how hard he tried to play it out in his head, had a large problem.

_'Gilbert! You—! Did you climb up and get in through that window?'_

Ha, this time if he climbed up and entered the window into Ludwig's room, Ludwig might not have tried to throw Gilbert right back out, but it almost wouldn't matter this time, because how could he save Ludwig from the tower if he couldn't touch him?

Yeah...

He'd said it, he knew he had, and he wanted to mean it, really, but he couldn't really fathom the thought of seeing Ludwig and not being able to _touch_ him. Didn't understand at all what Toris had even meant. Didn't understand anything at all, not a thing, these guys were so far above him, so out of his reach, just didn't get it.

Not being able to touch Ludwig? Impossible.

He knew it, and Toris probably had, too.

...just didn't wanna _die_ , now, not now. Had come so far, done so much, and now there was so much more at stake. It wasn't just Ludwig now that he wanted to save from Siberia. Had someone else that needed him too, now, although really Gilbert needed them more than they needed him. Just wanted to save them both. Wanted both of them, Ludwig and Toris. Didn't wanna leave either one of them behind, didn't want to lose one of them. As he always had, he wanted to be the hero, wanted to have everything, didn't want to lose, wanted to come out on top of the world, wanted to _win_.

Couldn't fathom leaving Ludwig _behind_ here, not now, not looking at this house.

Wanted so badly to take Toris over that wall, but he couldn't do that until he had Ludwig, just couldn't, even if he had tried to convince himself that he could be happy with a look. Happy—how could he be? Ludwig had crossed that wall for him, Ludwig was only here now because of him. How could Gilbert ever go back with just someone else? Leaving Ludwig behind? Couldn't.

No matter how much he wanted Toris, too.

Couldn't leave without Ludwig.

So many years wrenching Ludwig out of Roderich's arms, so many times, even though he had always known deep down that Roderich was the best fit for Ludwig. Knew that Ludwig should have stayed with Roderich, but hadn't let him, and now here they were. Roderich would never forgive him if he couldn't get Ludwig out of here now, never.

Couldn't leave Ludwig here, because Roderich was...

Damn.

Time kept ticking.

He waited and waited in the trees, but never saw anyone. Toris shoulda been there by now, should have, everything had been planned so perfectly, so carefully, even down to the minutes. Toris was so smart, so damn smart, knew every inch of this town and how long it took to walk it, and yet he hadn't appeared there.

No one had left the house, and no one came up.

Toris didn't come, and Gilbert kept checking his watch, growing more and more restless and terrified with every second that passed.

Oh, _Toris_ —was he alright?

Couldn't stand thinking about, couldn't, and the awful things running through his head was making him so sick, so sick, making him so nervous. It was getting harder and harder to just sit there and wait, because the minutes kept ticking, and Toris still hadn't come. Up until that moment, everything Toris had done had been meticulous and perfect, down to the very last detail.

Something had gone wrong, he knew it, and it was driving him to the brink.

He stood up, far too jittery to keep crouched, and started looking around desperately, stretching his neck out and scanning the grounds below.

Nothing.

Didn't get it, but just knew all of a sudden that something was wrong, and that he didn't wanna wait anymore. Couldn't wait, couldn't. Would have lost what little of his mind he had left, if he waited any longer.

Shit.

He knew he shouldn't have, knew it, but couldn't help it. He drew his gun, looked around one more time, took a deep breath, and bolted as fast as he could out of the trees and down the yard towards the house.

Flying, over dead grass and frost.

The smell of fallen leaves in the cold air.

Hadn't run so fast since that border, had almost forgotten he could run so fast, his chest was about to explode from that pace, but he didn't stop, didn't slow down, and only barely managed to dig his heels into the ground in time to keep from crashing straight into the concrete foundation of the house. Rested back against it to catch his breath, gun up to his chest, clenched in both hands as he darted his eyes back and forth across the grounds in panic.

Nothing moved. Nothing stirred.

So far, so good.

Couldn't _see_ anyone, anyway. No one was shooting at him yet. Now. What to do. He turned his head, to the closest side of the house, and crept along, as quietly as he could, always looking over either shoulder as he went.

Was so damn scared that he was actually pretty numb, which made it easier to not lean over and throw up or start crying.

The moon was hidden again behind the white clouds, and Gilbert had crept across the side of the house and towards the front. Could see the steps at last, could see a car out near the drive. He looked around one more time, saw no movement, and turned his eyes upward. Didn't see any lights, none at all. No curtains moving. Nothing, not a thing, and he wasn't sure if he was really relieved by that or not.

So terrifying, everything about this place.

He took a step, another, so quietly, carefully, and made it up the stairs without anyone creeping up behind him or lunging out at him. The only sound then was the rustle of the forest when the breeze blew gently. Dead leaves blowing over the frosted grass.

Suddenly, the front door was right in front of him.

Looked more like the portal to the abyss.

Ludwig lied in wait within. Couldn't falter, couldn't retreat, had to be brave, because he was already here, had gone through so much, had already felt too much terror. Couldn't go back, not without Ludwig. Wouldn't let all of it be for nothing. Eduard had let him go first, and Roderich didn't pick up the goddamn phone still, the jerk, and so Gilbert couldn't leave without Ludwig. Wherever Toris was, whether he was waiting there at the end or not, he wouldn't leave this house without Ludwig.

Fear held him still, for just a second, but there was no other way.

The only way was forward, because that was where Ludwig was.

He sucked in a great inhale for courage, breath puffing out in the cold air, and then he pushed open the door.

Dark.

The door creaked in the cold, Gilbert panicked for it, gun straight out and waving all over the place as he slunk inside, eyes trying so hard to adjust to the low light. The click of his boot on the floor. His own heart thudding. Dread. He shut the door behind him as quietly as he could behind him, never once taking his eyes away from the black void of the hallway right in front of him.

No sounds.

Nothing.

He leaned against the door and let his vision catch up to the dark.

The foreboding hall in front of him. A staircase to the left. Could see at least two doors farther down the hall, but couldn't see the end.

He breathed through his mouth, tried to stop his hands from shaking, and even though every bit of him just wanted to start calling Ludwig's name, even he wasn't that damn stupid, and so he weighed his options. To go up, or to check the hall. Didn't want to go upstairs, didn't wanna get trapped up there if _he_ came in, but then, really, if _he_ came in then Gilbert was in trouble, no matter what story of this house he was on.

With that thought, he held the gun out, braced his shoulders, and started creeping down the hall.

So quiet, it so damn quiet. Stone floor. Everything was pale, grey and white, and what very little of it he could see just seemed so foreboding and terrifying. The dim moonlight wasn't helping at all, casting shadows as they were. The air was cold, even inside. Could still see his breath in here. Maybe the people who lived here just didn't feel the cold at all anymore.

He approached the first door he saw, stood before it for a good long while in terror, and finally found the courage to grab the handle and twist it. Pushing it open, though, took a hell of a lot longer.

He peered into the darkness.

Couldn't see anything, really.

He pushed it a little farther, just a little, and yet, for all of that fear, it was entirely uneventful. Actually, the room, when he could finally see it, was alarmingly bare. Empty. Nothing at all inside. Just a blank room. How strange. Who had a perfectly good room on a downstairs level with not one single thing inside? Could have sworn, though, as he shut the door, that he had caught the scent of Toris. Familiar. Comforting. He looked at the front door, hopefully, but there was no one there, of course.

He shook it off, and went to the next.

The second door was locked; he jingled the knob, but it didn't turn.

One more door, and then past it there was a kitchen, pale and open from the light streaming in through the curtains. He crept carefully around the corner and checked the kitchen first, saw nothing and no one, and finally braced himself for the third door.

Had an outside lock on it.

Gilbert twisted it, as quietly as he could, heart pounding so hard that his damn ears were whooshing with the blood flow, and then he pushed it. Didn't move. He pulled it instead, and it started creaking.

Once more unfounded fear.

Just a closet, dark as could be, but empty. Nothing inside. Standard issue closet.

Whew—what a relief.

Well, then. Suppose there was no choice but to go upstairs and see what was there. More doors to check, no doubt, more rooms, and he really hoped that he would actually find Ludwig in one of them before he made it to that terrifying tower bit, wasn't looking forward to that, not at all. Hoped still that Ludwig would suddenly just come downstairs and right into his arms.

And then, as he turned with a jittery sigh of relief to head to the staircase, there was a figure in the hall.

Fuckin' Christ—!

He jumped in panic, crying out and gun flying up and aiming in a second, heart hammering so hard and adrenaline coursing so powerfully he was surprised he didn't pass out right there.

Hadn't heard anyone come in, had heard nothing at all, no footsteps. Where had this shadow come from? Had been utterly silent, impossibly so. How? Hadn't heard a thing.

Couldn't see at first who it was, only a dark silhouette against the backdrop of moonlight. Took a long second for his eyes to adjust. Wasn't Ludwig, though, he knew that right off. The hair lit up in the dull moonlight was brunet, not blond. Not Ludwig.

The figure took a step towards him, even though the gun was pointed at him, and then one more, and Gilbert's hair was already on end. Could barely breathe.

Suddenly, he could see well enough, just enough.

Hell. A kid?

His gun didn't fall, but his guard did, a little.

Just a kid. Didn't understand why there was a kid here. Had Toris ever mentioned him? Raivis, wasn't it? Had to be, but Gilbert didn't think he was so young, somehow. Gilbert had never thought he would be a kid. Hadn't expected a kid. Gilbert stood there, gun aimed at the kid's chest, and he heard Toris' warning ringing over and over in his head, loud as could be, knew he was supposed to shoot on sight, he knew it, he did, he just...

Oh, Toris. Sorry. Just couldn't _do_ it.

Made him so sick. No matter how hard he tried, how much he knew he needed to, he just couldn't do it. Didn't have the stomach or heart for any of this, really didn't, was in so far over his head. He just couldn't stand there and _look_ at someone and kill them. Wished Toris had been here, more than anything, then, because he was scared.

Pitiful.

Then suddenly, absolutely out of nowhere, the fuckin' kid charged at him, like a bear, and started tryin' to take the gun. Gilbert froze, fuckin' froze, even though Toris had warned him so much not to, and he couldn't bring himself to pull the trigger before the kid had reached him and grabbed the gun.

Shit—

Kid was stronger than he looked, so much stronger, and the panic came rushing up when suddenly Gilbert was no longer entirely in control of the gun waving around.

Terror.

"Stop! Stop it!" he cried, as he wrestled furiously with the kid suddenly for control of his own gun, and in was the sheer panic that gave him the strength to save his own ass, because for a second there the kid had actually turned the gun around on him, for just a second.

Had wrenched it up and away, and Gilbert's terror was unrivaled.

Somehow, someway, couldn't ever say how, he had managed to twist them around and get the kid's back to the wall, and used the force of the obstacle to push the kid's arms back. The gun was turned again, the right way this time, and still the kid was trying so furiously hard to overpower him, as the gun was steadily turning farther and farther towards his chest.

"Stop!" Gilbert cried, one final time, and even as he said it he could feel himself squeezing the trigger.

Fuckin' kid wouldn't stop—

The gunshot was far too loud in the hall, far too loud. Echoed down it and was amplified.

His hearing went out.

Dumb and dazed, stunned, Gilbert could only fall completely still when the kid suddenly did. An awful, horrible stare between them, in that silence. A crinkle of the kid's brow, incomprehension, confusion, and the hands holding the gun suddenly fell down.

The kid fell soon after, slumping down against the wall and then toppling forward onto his stomach in the hall.

It was so quiet.

Could already see the blood pooling out there on the stone floor.

Felt like he stood there for years, staring down at that stupid, stupid kid. What had he been thinking? Gilbert hadn't wanted anything more than for him to go away. That was all. Hadn't wanted to fight, hadn't wanted to hurt him—

Footsteps from above.

Pumped full of adrenaline and horror and everything else, Gilbert looked up at the ceiling, over at the stairs, and then leapt over, hiding there by the side of the staircase, gun aimed and ready, and waited.

Waiting, couldn't stand it, this anticipation and fear, it was killin' him.

Oh, please, please, _please_ be Ludwig, please be Ludwig, _please_ —

It wasn't.

A shape, a shadow, and then someone came down, and before Gilbert had gathered the nerve to pull the trigger at last, he saw it was a woman. Irina, that woman, and Gilbert knew that Toris had told him to shoot her, too, but just like before he froze.

Oh, he wanted Ludwig so bad, so bad, but he still couldn't pull the trigger. Why couldn't he pull the trigger? He'd already killed two people, two, hadn't wanted to but he had all the same, so why wouldn't his finger work?

All he had wanted was Ludwig.

The woman hit the bottom step, and instead of shooting her, Gilbert lunged forward from behind, grabbed her, clamped one hand over her mouth and pressed the gun into her temple with the other. She reached up, instinctively, grabbed his forearms, and started trashing and screaming. The sound was muffled for his palm, but she was fighting, struggling, and he knew he should have just shot her but instead he shot his gun into the air to startle her, pressed it back into her head, and hissed, "Shut up! Shut up or I'll shoot ya!"

He just couldn't do it. Admired Toris so much, so much, but could never be like him and honest to god he really didn't wanna be.

She must have been able to understand him, or maybe the gun pressing into her had gotten the point through, for finally she stopped struggling and stayed quiet.

All he could do then was look around, feeling helpless and panicked, and search for a place to stash her. Didn't really wanna shoot her, too, didn't. Hadn't ever wanted to kill anyone. Didn't really have the stomach for it. Natalia had been an accident, that was all. He hadn't meant to do that. The stupid kid had forced his hand. He had her subdued now; no point in killing her.

At last, he regained his senses, and he kept a tight hold of her as he whirled her around, her back to his chest, and kept his hand tight over her mouth. He tried to walk over to that closet with the lock, to stuff her in there for now so she wouldn't get in the way.

She didn't cooperate as much as he had wanted, and she was damn strong. Took too much effort and too much of his remaining courage to drag her over and toss her in the fuckin' closet. She raised holy hell, Christ almighty did she ever, and fought tooth and nail to keep him from shutting that closet door. It took everything he had to overpower her, and maybe when he finally got her in far enough he banged her head into the hard wall intentionally. Enough to stun her for a second, but that was all he needed. He shut the door, and twisted the lock.

The air was freezing.

He leaned up there against the door, head thrown back and temples pounding, and closed his eyes. Exhaustion. Muffled screeching and crying from behind him. The gun hung loosely in his fingers, as his breath turned to smoke in the air, and he felt then that he had reached his limits. So tired, and didn't even know if it was physical or all in his head, but he was so damn tired then he could barely keep standing.

Where was Toris right now? Had _he_ found him? Couldn't stomach the thought.

Thumping on the door.

His chest was killing him. Lungs stung with the air.

The banging on the door bumped him up and down. Why was she shrieking like that? As if being locked in there was actually killing her.

His breathing felt erratic. Clumsy.

Where was _Toris_? Oh, was he fuckin' _safe_? Was he still out there, running? Had he gotten away, or had he cut it too close? Toris was so strong, so brave, so confident and sure; had he gotten in a little over his head for once? If Toris died, like Eduard had, Gilbert wasn't sure that even getting Ludwig out would ever be enough to make him forgive himself for it.

When the early light of dawn had broken through the window, Gilbert had always looked over at Toris there sleeping, and had felt happy, calm, because when Toris was asleep—that was the only time that Toris looked peaceful. The only time Toris looked tranquil was when he was sleeping, and Gilbert stayed awake just to watch him because he couldn't see Toris' face like that any other time.

It was stupid, he knew it, but Gilbert just wanted _everything_ ; wanted Ludwig, wanted Toris, and wanted to get both of them back home without losing anything else. Didn't wanna lose anything else, not anyone else.

Roderich—

Couldn't lose anyone else, so Toris had to be safe. The only way he could focus, could move, could press forward, was to convince himself that Toris was safe. Toris was the craziest, bravest, strongest son of a bitch Gilbert had ever met in his life, and Toris wouldn't go down so easy. Maybe, hell, maybe Toris had even somehow managed to kill that bastard. Maybe it was all already over, maybe Toris was on his way here, right now, and they could all go. Together.

Wanted everything.

Could barely breathe, as that door kept on banging up and down behind him. She was still going at it, still shrieking and pounding.

Fell into space for a minute there.

Toris. What a bastard. When they were back in Berlin, he was gonna take all of them on a trip out to Vienna, all three of them, and they were gonna tear that town apart for days on end. Was gonna take Ludwig to all those museums, and Toris too, because they had never seen them. Ludwig and Toris would get along so well, because they were both so smart and so brave, and Gilbert could have stood there in between them, one arm on either shoulder as they walked and talked. Ludwig could stand before Gilbert and they could look at each other as equals, because for once in his pitiful life Gilbert had actually kept one of his promises, after so long. Ludwig could go back into the world that deserved him, Ludwig could make it a better place, Ludwig could help people like he had wanted to, maybe even Roderich could finally have his dream come true and adopt Ludwig and Ludwig would one day become an ambassador. And Toris could see for once that there was a world out there behind the curtain, could see that there were good people, people like Ludwig, that not everyone and everything was just dark. Toris could stand in a world where he wasn't just a number, where he was actually a person with rights, where he didn't have to carry a gun at all times. Coulda been happy, all of them, would have been happy, would have made them both happy, and maybe even one day Gilbert could have actually done something to make Toris smile, and maybe after that he could find a way to make Ludwig proud of him. And maybe, if he could finally say that he was _sorry_ , god willing maybe Roderich would forgive him, for everything.

Ha. Yeah. In his dreams.

He opened his eyes, and instead of stone Vienna he was in this terrifying stone house, Toris was lost and Ludwig was missing. Roderich, no matter how many times Gilbert refused to say it, refused to think it, refused to acknowledge it, no matter how many times Gilbert forced himself to _forget_ it, Roderich was dead. Roderich was dead, Toris had killed him because of Gilbert, and for that Ludwig would never be proud of him.

Roderich was dead. No amount of denial would change that. Not being able to say it aloud wouldn't change that. Pretending that Roderich was still waiting on the other side to take Ludwig out of his hands wouldn't change that. Saying 'sorry' wouldn't bring Roderich back.

Sometimes, it was impossibly staggering to sit here at the end of the line and realize that all of this had happened, so many people had died, so much had passed that could never be taken back, so much hurt, all of it, all because Gilbert had thrown a grenade at a door.

That was all.

The flick of his wrist had set all of this into motion, and so he wouldn't leave until he had Ludwig, because all of this was his fault.

He had been impatient, and innocent people had died. Wouldn't let Ludwig be just one more.

He stood there for who knew how long, and when he finally got his head screwed back on and came back to the world, the banging had stopped and so had the crying.

Silence.

He pressed back, and could hear muffled sobbing. Ah—hell. She'd live. Being locked in a closet never hurt anybody.

He finally found the nerve and will to push off the door, and finally made it to the stairs, taking the first terrifying step up.

Had to do it, had to, had to be brave, because Toris was. Had let so many people down, so many, so many people had gotten hurt because of him, and didn't want to add one more name to the list. Not _that_ name, not that one, because Ludwig was _everything_ , but when Ludwig was safe and didn't need Gilbert anymore, when Ludwig left him and went somewhere else, when Ludwig flew away from him for good...

Toris seemed to be the only one that was immune to Gilbert's attitude, to his selfishness, to his arrogance and his insanity. Ludwig had been too sweet and good-natured to put up with him forever, Roderich had been too strict and austere. Toris was a crazy, violent asshole, no other way around it, and so was Gilbert. The only one that could ever possibly hope to put up with him.

Ludwig was everything, but one day, maybe, Toris could have been.

Toris, sleeping.

For that, he kept moving, and scaled the stairs.

Oh, Ludwig—where _was_ he?

It was always so hard for them, it seemed, no matter what either of them did. Destined for misery, and it shouldn't have been that way, because they had loved each other. All he had ever wanted was Ludwig, since the day he had first laid eyes on him.

Roderich was dead.


	54. Meeting Again

**Chapter 54**

**Meeting Again**

What an exciting _night_!

Ludwig was glad for it, above all else, positively tickled really, because at long last he wasn't so mercilessly bored anymore. Hadn't ever been so glad to see Toris, saving him from Ivan's forced monotony.

Ivan's excitement seemed a little less enthusiastic than Ludwig's, to be fair, as Ivan wrenched him along down the street. Ivan's ruthless grip had long since cut off blood flow to his arm and made it fall asleep, had already bruised him, but Ludwig was still smiling away as Ivan very literally dragged him back through town and up to the house.

Such a pretty night, good weather, and Ludwig was glad he had gotten to see a good show to go along with it. Toris had put on a surprisingly grand one.

Had never heard Ivan's voice go quite that high, and had certainly never seen him _run_. Adorable, really, looked just like a little tiger cub pitching a fit. To think that it would be Toris that could somehow make Ivan so angry. Wished he knew what Ivan had been shrieking.

Comical.

Ludwig had never been so pleased to disobey Ivan. He had been right to squirm out from underneath him in bed and down the stairs. Liked so much seeing that look of tired exasperation on Ivan's face when he was forced to give chase behind Ludwig. Couldn't help it—it was Ivan's fault, cooping him up inside like that. Usually just ended when Ludwig had gotten out enough energy and let Ivan catch him by the collar and drag him back, but tonight—ah.

Tonight, though; that had been something _spectacular_.

Most fun he had had since before he could remember.

Toris was stuck in the mine, though, so Ludwig didn't really understand why Ivan was dragging him along so brutally. Didn't understand why Ivan had just left Toris there so abruptly, and why Ivan was looking over his shoulder and all around so restlessly. Didn't understand why Ivan looked so nervous, so agitated, when Toris had been put out of commission.

Ludwig knew better than to ask, knew better than to irritate Ivan, because his arm would have been snapped, so he just stumbled along at Ivan's side and kept on smiling.

At least until they reached the house, and Ivan spun him around to grab him by both arms instead.

Ivan's voice in his ear, a very deadly hiss, "Get inside, inside, go inside, you wait for me. Inside. Now. And if you see anyone that's not me, you shoot them, you hear? Go to the office, and get the guns. Shoot anyone. You understand?"

Keys jingling, as Ivan frantically pulled them out of his pocket and shoved them into Ludwig's hand, and then shoving Ludwig so forcefully through the doorframe that Ludwig stumbled backwards.

Ludwig's smile fell.

Ivan shut the door in his face, and Ludwig rolled his eyes in absolute irritation as he lifted the curtain and watched Ivan from the window, stalking off around the house. Really? Where the hell was he going now? Couldn't he make up his mind? Why had Ludwig had to come back? Didn't understand why he couldn't go along. Just knew that he was once more barricaded up inside this damn house. As usual.

Barely felt like it, but he tossed the keys up and down in his hand, and then decided to go to the office as instructed. Why bother, though? Ivan hadn't even waited for Ludwig to get him a pistol, had already jogged off, and Ludwig had Toris' gun yet. What was Ivan looking for? Didn't understand. Toris was back at the mine, so what was Ivan looking for here? Was so desperately curious, really was. Had always been so nosy, and this time just couldn't get any answers.

With an annoyed sigh, Ludwig just shook his head and tucked the keys away.

Ah, hell, maybe Ivan had just gone back to kill Toris and was so mad he had forgotten which way he even needed to go. Maybe, for whatever reason, Ivan just hadn't wanted Ludwig there when he killed Toris, and Ludwig was a little annoyed at that too because he really wanted to enjoy the finale of the show if that was the way it had to be. Had given Toris a lifeline, yeah, but didn't wanna miss it if Ivan really was gonna kill him.

Ludwig started walking, mindlessly, because Ivan had given him an order, and an order from Ivan he would never disobey. ...well. Most of the time. Sometimes. Certainly not right in front of Ivan, at any rate. Nothing for it. Ivan was in an exceptionally livid mood, one level of rage that Ludwig hadn't yet seen, so maybe, until he had concluded more experiments, it would be best just to do as Ivan said for the rest of the night.

Didn't matter, suddenly, any of it, because as soon as Ludwig stepped down the hallway, he knew immediately that something was amiss within his house. Something was off. Couldn't put his finger on it, but knew it all the same.

The air smelled of gunpowder.

He didn't make it to the office then to get the guns from the safe, because an obstacle in the hall stopped him short. Raivis was hardly noticeable at first, dark as it was. Ludwig saw him there when the moonlight broke through the cloud front and gleamed in through the curtains.

Dead there on the floor, a pool of blood underneath him.

How—?

A long stare of incomprehension, and then the anger surged. Wrath. Absolute fury. Raivis—that kid had been theirs.

Raivis was going to be _his_ project, theirs, Ivan had created Ludwig and Ludwig had wanted to try his hand at it, had wanted to make something with Ivan, had wanted to be the one to lead and guide, and, for that, Raivis had been his. Raivis was supposed to be Toris' replacement, and Ludwig was going to be the one who would have made him that way. That kid had been his.

His.

One day, Raivis would have fit into their circle. Would have been theirs.

Who had had the nerve to do this? Had it been Toris, before Ludwig had run into him? Had to have been, no one else could have ever had the gall. Would have shot the bastard dead, alright, had he known beforehand.

_Fuck_ —!

Ludwig kicked out and struck the end table with his boot, cursing, took several deep breaths to steady his heaving chest, ran a hand over his hair, cracked his neck, and tried to compose himself. A hand over his face, and a sigh. Calm down. He could be calm, collected, because, well...

He did pull it together, very shortly after, and the anger ebbed down.

Ah, hell.

Well. It wasn't Ivan, now, was it, and therefore he would get over it. Come to think, he already was, and he was very, perfectly calm when he lifted his foot, stepped over Raivis, and made once more for the office.

And, once more, he didn't make it there.

This time, when he pulled the keys out of his pocket, he was distracted by a sound.

He turned his head, ever so slightly, listened, and then straightened back up, keys once more sliding into in his pocket. Ah, so many interruptions! What was going on tonight? Full moon must have had something to do with it.

Feeling more irritated and annoyed than excited now, Ludwig just made once more down the hall, careful not to slip in the little stream of blood that was making its way down the floor. He walked silently, making no sound as he went, and tried to pinpoint the noise he had heard.

Found it, shortly after.

From within a closet, there was the muffled sound of sobbing. Hm. Curious. Noises from within the closet—must have been one of those ghosts. Ludwig wasn't scared by any means, but dutifully pulled Toris' gun from his under his shirt anyway, holding it steady in his hand and ready as he reached up and grabbed the doorknob. He pulled back the hammer, just in case, because Ivan would be disappointed otherwise perhaps. For all the good it would do, anyway, if it was just a ghost.

Very steady and quite unconcerned, Ludwig yanked open the door.

Darkness. Sobbing, gasping, sounds of distress.

When his eyes adjusted, he felt himself scoffing and lowering the gun. Not a ghost at all. Just Irina, huddled up on the floor, knees to her chest, curled up into a ball and sobbing away. She didn't even seem to notice that the door had opened at all, and Ludwig stood there, shaking his head and throwing out his hip.

How annoying.

Ludwig raised the gun up, grimacing, scratching irritably at his hair with the muzzle, and took a very good look around. No one there, no sounds at all, no moving shadows. No one, and nothing, and well...

Well!

Ludwig snorted to himself, gave a little laugh, and remembered that Ivan had, after all, instructed him to shoot _anyone_ that wasn't him.

Anyone.

Hadn't made any other exceptions in his order, not one at all. 'If you see anyone that's not me, you shoot them!' His exact words.

Ivan had slapped Irina, for the very first time; as far as Ludwig was concerned, that meant the bond was broken. The illusion of Irina had shattered. She had been absolutely untouchable before, because if Ivan wouldn't lay hands upon her, then no one on Earth could. Not anymore—she was suddenly just as human as everyone else.

Ludwig lowered the gun from his hair, looked around one more time, just in case, and then he raised the gun back up and pointed it at her. Hell, she hadn't even looked up yet, hadn't noticed the door was open, and, after all, she apparently hated it here so much that she wanted to go. Wanted to go back to Moscow. Wanted to leave so badly. If she didn't want to be here, then she could just _go_ , alright. She didn't want to be here anymore, and if she didn't want to be here, then he didn't want her here, either.

Suddenly, she finally lifted her head, saw him there, and turned up her bleary eyes. A long stare, and then she gave a heavy sigh of relief when she saw who was above her.

"Oh, Ludwig! It's you, _oh_ —"

If she saw the gun pointing at her, then she wasn't aware that it was pointed at her because Ludwig knew who she was. Thought he had just opened the door and had been prepared for anything. She was unconcerned, and raised her hands to wipe her eyes.

A gasp and a wavering sigh.

"Thank you. I was so scared in here, you don't know."

Ludwig tilted his head, and whispered, "I do know."

What, did she think she was the only one that had ever been locked in a closet?

She still didn't look up at him, trying to catch her breath and gather up her strength and will, and Ludwig took one final look around. No Ivan. No one.

So Ludwig just said, "I'll help you escape."

She inhaled, so sharply, and looked up, and he saw the elation there on her face. He knew then for certain that she really _had_ been trying to leave, to get away, to escape, as it was, and that somehow offended him enough to give him a sense of justification when he pointed the gun into her forehead.

She barely had time to even understand what was happening before he pulled the trigger.

A bang, silence, and then a thud, as she fell backwards into the closet.

He hadn't given her time to be scared, and he felt pretty good about that. Because she was Ivan's sister, he killed her when she had been _happy_ , because Ivan deserved that.

Ludwig scratched his head once more with the gun, looking around with a smile and a giggle, and then he just said, "Oops!" and kicked the door shut.

Shoot anyone, Ivan had said. Couldn't ever say he had disobeyed.

Could barely bite down his laughter and smile, and shook his head again to himself as he once more set his mind on getting to the office.

Blood began to leak out from under the door.

Well. Ludwig tucked Toris' gun under his shirt and into his belt, lifted his chin, smiled to the air, and carried on his way. Toris had killed Raivis, after all. Was it so hard to believe he had just killed Irina, too? Nah, not at all. Toris had a blacklist that Ludwig absolutely aspired to, an impressive record behind him, and it would never have shocked anyone, Toris shooting Irina, because Toris would have shot anyone.

That was all. Case closed.

This was all, of course, assuming that Ivan could even be bothered to ask or care, which didn't seem very likely.

Ah, Toris, Toris, Toris. What a ruckus he had caused.

Ludwig hadn't shot Toris, when it came down to it, because in a way he wanted Toris to be alive when Ludwig surpassed him. Wanted Toris to still be well and kicking when Ludwig caught up to all of his records. For that, Ludwig spared Toris, because he was jealous of him, underneath it all. Couldn't show Toris up if Toris were dead. And anyway, Toris had amused him in that moment, had been humorous to him, but only because he had been so bored for so many months. Shame that Ivan was murdering Toris right now, because there would be no showing him up after that. Toris had given him a good laugh for a while there.

Oh, well.

This time, finally, Ludwig actually made inside the office, but when he knelt down before the safe, there was another damn interruption.

This time, the sound of footsteps.

A surge of fury.

Okay, it wasn't funny anymore, really it wasn't, and Ludwig cursed under his breath as he once more pulled out Toris' gun. Had the sense to open it and actually make sure there were more bullets in it before he stood up. There were, but he wasn't even sure why he checked because Ivan had probably already gone back and strangled Toris to death there in the mine. Was probably Ivan's footsteps he heard then, but pulled the gun anyway because not doing so would be foolish and rather disobedient. Couldn't have that, and so Ludwig crankily smoothed back his hair, straightened his collar, sighed to calm himself, and stepped out of the office.

Realized immediately that the footsteps he heard were coming from upstairs. Odd; hadn't heard the front door open, and hadn't heard footsteps going up, and yet some were coming down.

More ghosts, maybe.

Ludwig once more held his gun at ready, and began the creep over to the staircase, as the heavy, thudding footsteps came very quickly down. Was so intent on looking up at the ceiling as he went to the stairs, so focused, that he actually jumped when something ran by him and touched his leg.

He jerked his gun down, finger contracting on the trigger, but stopped himself short at the last second with a scoff.

Just the cat. Must have known that he had almost gotten shot, too, because he sat there in the hall in front of Ludwig, bathed in moonlight, staring up and him, and hissed at him. A first. Ludwig stared back at him, felt as offended as he had earlier, lifted his chin, and said, in a drawl, " _Sorry_ , Sasha."

The great brown cat stood up and turned tail, darting away, and Ludwig wondered if he was so mad because he had seen what had happened to Irina. Luckily for the cat, he couldn't speak, now, could he? Would have been in trouble otherwise. Ah—hardly. Ivan would scarcely turn his head at that had Ludwig ever told him the truth. Wouldn't have batted an eye or cared.

The footsteps were ever closer.

He looked up then, towards the encroaching phantom.

The footsteps had reached the top of the first level, and Ludwig waited there around the railing, gun ready.

And it actually _was_ a ghost that came down the stairs then and around the bend and nearly ran right into him. Had to be a ghost, and not just because he was so white. A loud cry of alarm and a motion, and the ghost had suddenly aimed a gun right in Ludwig's face as much as Ludwig had his.

That face.

Ludwig held the gun straight out, the ghost's gun pointed right back at him, and they stood there at the bottom of the stairs in a breathless impasse. Their guns nearly touched each other's foreheads.

That _face_ —

For the first time in a good while, Ludwig found himself immobile and utterly frozen, breathing through his mouth and eyes wide and so still that he had stopped blinking and thinking.

Just shock then, absolute shock.

That ghost.

In the moonlight streaming in from the window, the ghost's eyes lit up a silvery-pink, his hair lit up white, skin glowing and pale, and Ludwig couldn't stop staring at him, couldn't look away, could barely even breathe then, so caught was he in those eyes.

A strange, strangled noise from the ghost, and his gun suddenly dropped down to his side like lead.

For a dumb moment, Ludwig twitched, to lower his too, and he didn't know why he did that, but it fell a few centimeters all the same, because, hell, could he even shoot a ghost? Didn't make sense. Had come from upstairs, no doubt, because it had escaped from that room.

Ah—! That was it.

Ludwig exhaled, heavily, shakily, and although he felt relieved, in a way, he still didn't let his gun fall farther down than the level of the ghost's chest. Damn, had given him a good start, that was for sure. Wondered then how long it would take for the ghost to vanish. Maybe when the moonlight went away, he would fade.

Christ.

Took him a while to steady his breathing, as the ghost stared at Ludwig as if Ludwig were the damn ghost.

Felt that breathless smile cross his face, felt so oddly giddy suddenly, so jittery and nervous, and he didn't know why he didn't lower his gun, he really didn't, because he knew he was just seeing things. Force of habit, he supposed, to aim. Ivan had beaten that into him as much as everything else. Always be ready. If he were more like Ivan, though, he wouldn't need a gun at all, because no one would ever be able to shoot him. He may have been able to harness Ivan, but Ludwig was still painfully aware that he could never perfectly emulate him. Emulation—had been how he had come out of the fog. Couldn't remember who he was, so he just had to be Ivan. Had to attach himself to Ivan and draw his personality from there.

But sometimes...

So he held the gun on the ghost, and tried to stop breathing through his mouth. Felt so dizzy. He laughed a little, suddenly, because he was nervous out of nowhere and didn't know what else to do.

Misty.

Everything had been so _clear_ lately, that fog had long since vanished, he had been so sharp and focused and able to think with no hindrance, mechanically almost in how smoothly, and yet suddenly it felt like the mists he had fought his way out of were back.

Couldn't think. Clarity was gone.

Sometimes, no matter how sure he was, no matter how much like Ivan he tried to be, he just couldn't ever shake it off; that awful lack of self. Sometimes, no matter how clear his head had seemed, he just didn't know who he was. Ivan wasn't here now, and Ludwig suddenly realized that he wasn't really so sure about himself. Hated that vulnerability.

The ghost just stared at him, eyes as wide as Ludwig's and breathing just as heavily.

And then the ghost suddenly opened his mouth, took a half-step forward and then tottered back, as if he wasn't sure if he wanted to come forward or not, and suddenly he spoke.

"Oh, god! It's— Ha, oh, Ludwig, it's really _you_! Oh—"

That voice. Damn, so familiar, so familiar, just couldn't think, couldn't, but his head was starting to twinge a little. An ache.

That voice.

Ludwig felt so hopelessly stuck then, couldn't remember the last time he had been so immobile and helpless, so still and stunned, as he stared at that ghost, who stared right back at him.

The pale moonlight dulled a bit, from the clouds, and those pink eyes turned a dark silver. The moonlight faded, but for some reason the ghost didn't. Was still very much there.

His headache intensified.

The ghost reached out then, stretched out his hand, and Ludwig was far too dumb and dazed to even attempt to elude him. Just stood there like an idiot, paralyzed. A pale hand, so close to his face, but then there was a sharp gasp, a noise deep in the ghost's throat, and suddenly he had stopped short and withdrew his hand. Maybe the ghost knew he would have just gone straight through Ludwig.

This ghost.

Knew him, somehow, just couldn't think.

A look that Ludwig could never really have described on that pale face. Looked a breath away from bursting into tears, looked terrified, looked so scared, and yet at the same time looked so happy, so excited, so elated.

Couldn't figure it out.

So he just stared.

"Ludwig... Oh, Ludwig! Why are you lookin' at me like that? Don't you know me? It's me. Oh! Hey! Don't you... Please! It's _me_!"

'Me'? You, so what, who the hell were _you_? This ghost. Who was he, who did he think he was, and who did he think Ludwig was? Ludwig didn't even know who the hell _he_ was, let alone who this ghost was.

Was suddenly so _confused_ , so confused, felt so mixed up. Like an awful fever he couldn't escape and everything was surreal.

So Ludwig didn't really know why he opened his mouth and heard himself say, in a low voice that he didn't entirely recognize, "You left me."

Left him? Just a ghost. Didn't mean anything at all. Didn't even know why he was bothering to speak. Anyway, that had happened long ago, if it had really even happened at all. The past didn't matter, really, so why had he said that? That came to him sometimes only in dreams that felt years and years apart from each other.

Wasn't real.

The ghost shook his head, defiantly, and when he spoke again, his voice had grown thin and high. Cracking with the effort.

"No! _No_! I didn't leave you, I didn't! I was stupid, I know I was stupid, I was so stupid, but I never meant for that to happen to you! I didn't! _Please_! I came all this way, please, Ludwig, you can't do this now! You got the rest of your life to hate me, just come with me now, please!"

What? Go with him where? Made no sense.

Ludwig, bewildered and squinting against the awful pain behind his eyes, just held the ghost's gaze and was silent.

Didn't know what to _do_.

Suddenly, the ghost hung his head, exhaled, and seemed so tired. So exhausted. How? He was already dead. Not like a damn ghost could wear itself out, no matter how hard he was trying to haunt Ludwig.

The ghost seemed to be hardly standing anymore, swaying a bit, but lifted his head and asked all the same, in a pitiful wisp of a voice, almost lost to the wind, "Ludwig— Where's Toris?"

Toris?

Ha—Toris was just a ghost, too. Ivan had made him one, by now.

Ludwig, feeling so dumbfounded, dazed, just lifted and lowered the gun in his hand in show.

"You know him? Then, ha— Don't you recognize his gun?"

Weren't ghosts all-knowing?

The ghost's eyes fell to the gun, he hissed a gasp as his face seemed to crumple, collapse, and then he finally unscrewed his eyes and glanced back up, and Ludwig could see then that he was crying. Ghosts could cry, huh? Learned something new. Curious, indeed, but...

Couldn't remember this particular ghost ever crying up there in the dark. Was this the right one, even? He'd gotten all mixed up suddenly. His head was pounding, throbbing.

He lifted his left hand up to his temple as his head started blazing in agony, and shook it a little to clear it of the fog building up. Couldn't seem to think straight, clearly. Felt like his head was full of sand. Chest too, because the air kept getting thinner.

A low, trembling, thick whisper.

"Oh, Ludwig. What's the _matter_ with you? What's happened to you? You—you gotta come with me, please. Don't you get it? You have to come _home_."

Home?

Wasn't he already home?

Oh, no, wait.

It was Ludwig suddenly who gave a strangled gasp and almost crumpled up, at the _thought_.

Oh, _no_ , maybe he was just locked in that room again, couldn't remember, he really couldn't. Maybe he had gone too far with his experiments, maybe he pressed Ivan too far, had been overconfident, maybe Ivan had gotten angry with him and had locked him once more up in that room. He had been above the fog and had been so bold for it, maybe he had just gone one step too far. Maybe this entire crazy night had been all up in his head because Ivan had gotten mad at him and had thrown him back in the dark.

_That_ room.

In a panic, inhaling so hard it hurt his chest, Ludwig looked around in a daze.

Didn't look like the room, didn't, looked just like home, but the ghost was here so god almighty was he really back in there? An awful clench of his chest, a sting of his eyes, a burst of adrenaline. Panic, once more threatening to take over and lock up his diaphragm. Couldn't stand to be back in _there_ , just couldn't—

Ivan hadn't put him in there in so long, Ludwig had been so confident, everything had been so great, he had gotten a little bit of control back, had found a foothold, had stopped feeling so helpless all the time, had almost _had_ it.

A very small step forward from the ghost. Another lift of his hand only for it to once more stop short and pull back. Looked as close to bawling as Ludwig then, the ghost, and his voice was trembling.

"Oh, please, _please_ , you can't do this. Please, come with me, Ludwig. Please come with me, I've come so _far_ for you, so fuckin' far, Lutz—"

That refocused his eyes, and because he was so terrified all of a sudden, he clenched the gun so tightly that his palm ached, and he heard himself cry, in a rather rough voice, "Don't call me that!"

No one called him that anymore. Not anymore, that was someone else, someone in some other life that may not have ever even happened at all, and no one called him that anymore.

_'Lutz, you're gettin' so_ tall _, knock it off, will ya?'_

Anymore?

If no one called him that anymore, then that meant that someone used to call him that, and he couldn't remember who or where or why, and it was making his head hurt so bad that he wanted to cry all of a sudden.

Felt like the walls were closing in.

No air.

Oh, Ivan, where was _Ivan_ , needed Ivan to come get him out of here, didn't remember what the hell he had done _wrong_ this time. Didn't want to be in here, he didn't, couldn't stand it, couldn't stand the way it made him feel. Didn't wanna be in here with this ghost, not _this_ one.

Hated that feeling.

Panic was ever clenching his chest, knew that feeling as much as anything else, knew what was going to come soon if he couldn't start calming down, knew it, and couldn't find anything within reach to stop it, because Ivan wasn't there to grab hold of and find stability in.

Was damn near hysterical then, was starting to shake, could find no air, was so close to breaking down, and then suddenly—

_Oh_.

Suddenly, the moon came back out in full force, bright and white, and when the moonlight hit those silver eyes of the ghost, they lit back up a bright crimson.

It made his breath hitch in his throat. The hysteria stopped short. An awful, burning rush of familiarity.

Knowing. Déjà vu.

He had been here sometime in a past life, he knew it somehow. Had walked this path, had known this ghost, had heard that voice, had looked into those eyes. Knew that face. Knew this ghost.

Knew this _man_.

So close, he was so close to figuring it out, so damn close, even if he just couldn't get the light to come on, he could see the shadows moving, really could, just couldn't get the bulb to fire.

All the same, he heard himself utter, so weakly, "I know you. I do."

Knew he did, knew it, was so close. Right there.

His hand started to fall, so slowly and entirely of its own accord. As much as his voice suddenly did what it wanted, so too did his hand. It was right there on the tip of his tongue, right there, right there, could see it, could taste it, could hear it there in his ears through the ringing.

Right there.

Ever more, his hand lowered, and millimeter by millimeter the gun fell.

So close, he knew it, was so close.

The ghost gave a great sob, inhaled, and _smiled_ , as he took another small step forward.

"Lutz."

Oh, that _smile_. He knew it, it was coming, that familiarity was creeping up, and he was so close to _remembering_. So close. Hadn't remembered anything in so long, so long, just lived day by day and took it one step at a time. Every morning was like a new life, because he could never remember too much.

Was so certain that that smile had been the last thing he had seen so many nights before falling asleep, was so sure, and yet couldn't think of how that was possible, couldn't focus.

Falling asleep at night...?

"Oh, Lutz, you don't know how much I missed you, so much, we're so _close_ , please, please—"

That voice.

Stories at night. Someone holding him to his chest. Someone reading to him as he had lied in bed. Every night, someone there pulling the blanket up and smiling at him right on the brink of sleep.

Someone?

'We're brothers,' Toris had said, but that wasn't true, never had been, but that word kept rising up, kept surging, couldn't push it away all of a sudden, couldn't get rid of it.

Someone else.

Stories.

"We're so close, Lutz, please. Come on, West, don't you remember? Huh? Please—"

West.

_East of the Sun and West of the Moon_ , someone had read that to him once, he was sure of it, someone once in a different life, someone.

Someone—

_Oh_ —!

And then suddenly, as Ludwig's brow shot up and he opened his mouth, the air changed. Could feel it, before he comprehended, before he heard, before he realized entirely what was happening, the air changed, because the ghost had suddenly cried out and waved his gun, and Ludwig followed the motion with his eyes as if through a blurry daze. Felt like slow-motion almost, the blurs, and it was making him sick.

The front door had banged open, slammed into the wall for the force, and every bit of thought Ludwig had gathered fled at the sound, he gave a cry as much as the ghost had, and his own gun flew back up without thought.

Just panic, utter panic, at the sound of the slamming door.

That glimpse of clarity was again obscured. Every little bit of the puzzle flew away, the pieces fell apart, and he went once more into that old sense of autopilot when he saw.

Ivan stood there in the frame, bathed in moonlight.

Oh— _Ivan_. Had needed him.

He stood there, tall and imposing and frightening for the bright light streaming in behind him, in the middle of them as they stood there in the hall in front of each other. The ghost hadn't turned away from Ludwig, still facing him with his body, but his arm and face were turned to Ivan. Pointing his gun at Ivan.

Oh, god, the look of Ivan then was terrible, so frightening. The scariest man Ludwig had ever seen. Someone Ludwig was truly and completely terrified of, and maybe it was just because Ludwig was a wreck then, because he hadn't been _afraid_ of Ivan in so long, not even a little. He loved Ivan, really, so he couldn't place why he wanted to run away screaming from Ivan, why he wanted to suddenly hide behind that ghost, why he wanted to bury his face in that ghost's chest and beg, 'Take me _home_!'

Home? Where was home?

Everything was muddled.

For a dumb moment, everything was utterly still, and Ludwig gave a weak scoff that was really just a little hissing gasp. Ivan probably couldn't even see what the hell Ludwig was aiming at, because of course Ivan couldn't see Ludwig's ghosts, only he could.

So hard to breathe all of a sudden, and he couldn't figure out why, really couldn't.

Ivan must have thought he was crazy.

Ivan looked as utterly breathless and dumbfounded then as he had when Ludwig had found him staring at Toris, that same expression. Eyes so wide and breathing heavily, chest heaving and feet splayed, arms stiff at his sides. A twitch of Ivan's eyes, a glance down, and Ludwig felt another second of relief. Right, Ivan was just looking at Raivis on the floor, had seen him there, and that was why he looked like that, because Ivan couldn't see the ghost.

Had worried, for just a second.

The ghost was still aiming his gun at Ivan, arm shaking so terribly that his shoulder shook too, and his eyes kept darting back and forth between Ludwig and Ivan. Ivan didn't move, didn't speak, just stood there, and Ludwig didn't know why he was still holding his own gun up. Ivan obviously couldn't see the ghost, because he would have said something by now.

Ludwig turned his own eyes briefly to Ivan, met his gaze, and waited, waited, for Ivan to offer him some kind of comfort, some kind of stability, some kind of sanity, if only by asking, 'What are you aiming at?'

Say something, _please_ , because his head was hurting so bad and he was more and more confused every second, couldn't even breathe anymore and for some inconceivable reason he suddenly felt _devastated_. Felt as if the entire world had fallen down around him. Didn't know where that feeling came from, and wanted it to go away.

Wanted Ivan to _say_ something.

Wanted to know if he was locked in that room or not because honest to god he didn't know and he was one wrong move away from either bursting into tears or having a panic attack. Needed to know where he was and who he was and if he was even real or not.

Say something.

_Please_.

Tell him what to do, anything, something, please, 'cause he didn't know what to _do_ , didn't, was so confused, felt so lost, so _alone_ all of a sudden, and god, for a horrifying moment there he could barely see Ivan at all because his eyes were stinging and getting bleary as they filled with tears.

But Ivan just _stood_ there, and Ludwig turned his blurry gaze back to the ghost.

Oh—it had been so close. He had almost had it.

His nerves were so close to giving out, shot out, he was so near the edge, losing his balance, slipping on the ice, and no matter how hard he tried he just couldn't get himself together. Everything in his head was suddenly a mess. Didn't even know where he was. Didn't know what his name was. Where his home was.

Above all else, more than anything, he just wanted to know why he felt that awful despair, that awful longing. Didn't even know what it was, but it was making his stomach twist up, and for some stupid reason even though he was standing inside of his own house he felt so _homesick_.

Homesick.

Suddenly, with a short exhale, the ghost stopped shaking. Utterly still, calm. His arm had steadied, his aim had steadied, and it was so strange, because Ludwig could see then that the ghost was going to shoot Ivan. Could see it there on his face, in that suddenly determined and fearless stance, could see it, and that was stupid, because obviously the ghost gun couldn't hurt Ivan. Ivan couldn't even see him at all, and if he had then it was still stupid, impossible, because no one could shoot Ivan. No one had ever been able to. Ivan knew it, Ludwig knew it, the world knew it. No one could shoot Ivan.

So Ludwig just didn't know why Ivan swallowed then, why his pupils were so dilated, why he had bristled out, why he looked so alarmed, as he had looked so frequently recently.

Didn't know why Ivan looked like that, and didn't know why the ghost was even aiming at all.

The ghost and Ivan stared at each other, although one end was surely staring at something else, and maybe Ludwig really was going crazy after all because he thought for a second that he saw Ivan's hands shaking.

The ghost suddenly scoffed and turned his head and caught Ludwig's gaze, gave a horrible smile that looked every bit as devastated and homesick as Ludwig was feeling and yet somehow so _happy_ , and then, one more time, the ghost spoke.

A beautiful, deep, warm whisper.

"I _love_ you."

That voice.

That beautiful stare, and then the ghost turned his eyes back to Ivan, and was ready to fire. Thought he heard Ivan's sharp inhale of breath.

At last, at long, long last, one second before Ludwig dissolved completely into tears at that _voice_ , Ivan finally said something.

" _Ludwig_! —shoot!"

Static.

His finger contracted on the trigger before his brain had finished digesting the words.

Automatic. Completely mechanical. Autopilot.

Ivan's order.

Obeyed instantly, robotically, even if it didn't make sense at all to him to shoot a ghost.

The sound of the shot echoed in the still house.

Afterwards, silence.

The ghost stood there, slumped and still smiling, and the way he stared at Ludwig had no description. None that Ludwig could think of, anyway. The gun slipped from his hand and clattered to the floor, and Ludwig lowered his own shortly after.

Just a ghost.

Short, sharp gasps, as the ghost took to breathing through his mouth. A sway. Unsteady. Took Ludwig a long minute to see the red spreading across the ghost's shirt.

That made no sense, none at all, because he didn't think ghosts could bleed.

Just a ghost.

Only a ghost, and so, really, when Ludwig thought about it, it didn't—

* * *

—even hurt all that much.

It was kinda funny, really. Sounded so scary, was so terrifying, was everyone's worst nightmare, standing before the barrel of a gun, but really, it just didn't hurt that much at all.

Just a sting. Pressure. As if he had just had the wind knocked out of him. Didn't really hurt at all, at least until he lost his balance, so lightheaded, and toppled backwards onto the floor. That had hurt, a little, slamming into the stone like that.

Just lied there for a second, feeling clammy and dizzy as the world spun.

Damn, though, he had been pulling the trigger. Just one damn second more, and he could have done it. Ludwig had just been a little quicker, as he always had been. Had been so close, but, ah, hell, seeing the look of terror on that bastard's face had been absolutely worth it. Ha—had _scared_ him. After all of it was said and done, Gilbert had managed to terrorize that son of a bitch. That look on his face.

Woozy.

And then, there above him, was the sun, at long last, looking down at him. Had waited so long for sunrise, and it had finally come, as Ludwig came over to him.

Ludwig knelt down beside of him, pressing the gun into the floor, and his other hand fell towards Gilbert's chest so slowly. He stopped short though, at the very last second, and looked so confused. As if he were trying to sense, in a way, if there was something really there or not. As if Ludwig wasn't entirely certain if any of this was real. If there was really anyone there.

And then, as Gilbert tried to catch his breath and gather his strength up, Ludwig finally lowered his hand onto Gilbert's chest. Rested it there against him, for a long second, and there was a gasp that was actually more of a cry, and Ludwig tottered backwards onto his haunches. His eyes were wide as could be, breathing frantically through his mouth, and Gilbert tried damn hard to sit up then, but couldn't manage all the way.

It was Ludwig who had suddenly come back up onto his knees, pressing his hands this time into the floor and hovering over Gilbert.

Could never have hoped to understand that expression on Ludwig's face, but didn't even need to, because just seeing that face was so much, too much, everything.

Ludwig had always been the most breathtaking thing he'd ever seen.

Worth it.

God almighty, to _see_ him again! No words for that, none, nothing could have ever described that elation he felt then there on the brink. The pain didn't matter then at all when pushed his palms into the ground and forced himself upright at the waist, gushing blood in torrents for it. Ludwig stared at him as if in complete awe, didn't move a muscle, and Gilbert somehow found the strength to sit up just enough to lock his arms around Ludwig's neck and embrace him.

Oh, to have Ludwig in his arms, to hold him again, to feel him, to smell him, to have him there under his palms, _god_ —

His happiest moment.

A long silence, as Ludwig knelt there so stiffly still, and then, suddenly a hand on his back, propping him up. Ludwig fell back down onto his knees, and the next thing Gilbert knew he was being held up in Ludwig's arms, his own still stubbornly locked around his neck, and their faces were pushed together.

Everything he had wanted for years, everything, and he couldn't stop kissing Ludwig's cheek, couldn't stop, just couldn't, and Ludwig just held him there and didn't move or speak.

As if Ludwig were somehow in a trance.

Didn't care, didn't care, just clung to him and kissed his cheek as many times as he could, even when he lost all strength and was only held up by Ludwig's arms and not his own. Ludwig turned his head then, mouth open and eyes wide, and their noses pushed together.

Ludwig looked so absolutely astounded, dumbfounded, as if, somehow, the touch had knocked all of his senses right out of him.

And then, at last, Ludwig spoke.

A deep, guttural whisper.

"Gilbert."

Ludwig's voice, that thunderous rumble that came deep from his chest, that voice that Gilbert had always known. The real Ludwig's voice.

_There_ he was, at last, the beautiful bastard! Had known he was still in there somewhere, knew it, just knew it. Had found him. Had taken so long, but he had found him. _Oh_ —enough. That was enough.

If he had had anything left in him, any strength at all, Gilbert would have told Ludwig how much he loved him, how much he had always loved him, how much he always would, but when he opened his mouth only blood came out.

So he just stared at Ludwig without once blinking because he didn't wanna waste a single second, not one, and hoped that dazed and misty Ludwig could just see in his eyes what he felt. Maybe he did, because Ludwig's face twitched, he could see it, a crinkle of his brow, a sharp intake of breath, eyes filling with water. Gilbert was so ecstatic that he pushed his lips into Ludwig's, found the strength to kiss him, and wished more than anything that he could have stayed in that moment forever.

Ludwig held him there, and just stared at him.

Blood, all over Ludwig's face, when Gilbert pulled a hand back and ran it adoringly over his cheek with the very last effort he had. His hand fell down to the floor after that, because he just couldn't keep it in the air any longer, but he still stubbornly pressed his lips into Ludwig's, until Ludwig finally began to lower him back down.

When Gilbert was lying back on the floor, Ludwig hung over him, hands clenching the front of Gilbert's shirt, eyes still wide and locked onto his own, and Gilbert managed to get enough blood out of his airway to say, thickly, "Damn, Lutz— Oh—you're so damn beautiful, you really are. Sure am glad—I got to see ya. That was all I wanted. Just to see you. God. Bein' _together_ again—"

He was forced to silence, when blood came up more than words.

The edges of his vision started getting a little bleary after that.

Ludwig's eyes were suddenly flitting over Gilbert's face, quite restlessly, endlessly, and Ludwig's voice was still deep and rumbling, still his own, when he whispered, "Together? Ha. Forev—...was that _you_ sayin' it? Was that you?"

Gilbert just gave Ludwig his best smirk, even then.

Trying to look as good as he felt, in spite of dying.

Ludwig just continued to stare at him through those wide eyes, swallowing, his gaze still darting over Gilbert's face as if he had never once seen another human being. The tears were there, could see them, but hadn't fallen yet. Ludwig wasn't crying. Just looked so confused.

Vision kept on getting darker, and that fuckin' sucked, 'cause he was really loving the sight of Ludwig's beautiful face, even if he looked so alarmed and _lost_.

"Gilbert, I—"

Ludwig just couldn't seem to really wake up, not all the way, and just kept on staring at him.

And Gilbert could swear, suddenly, that he heard Roderich's voice, too. Ludwig laughing, just that happy little kid he had been once. Came to him faintly, as if from across the sea.

Whispers.

Footsteps, running across the kitchen floor, and a squeal as Roderich's laughter echoed in the hall, as Ludwig was swept up into Roderich's arms—

Ludwig's hand had come up to his face, settling on his cheek, as if Ludwig were still feeling to make sure that Gilbert was actually there.

Ah, couldn't be mad at the dumb son of a bitch. Loved him too much, and anyway, Gilbert had always been the crazy one. Woulda been so unfair to even bother calling Ludwig crazy.

Ludwig was still holding his gaze so intently. Gilbert was still smirking away, couldn't help it, because he was so happy, felt _so_ happy. So far, all that way, halfway across the Earth itself, and he'd made it. Every fuckin' possible obstacle had been thrown at him, that bastard had tossed everything he had had at Gilbert, and Gilbert had still gotten him over. Had still made it, despite it all, had crossed the finish line.

The prize was Ludwig's hand there on his cheek.

Damn. Couldn't beat that.

Movement in the dark edges of his vision. Coulda sworn he caught a glimpse of someone familiar. A distant whiff of Roderich's cologne. That jerk—please, come haunt his ass, really needed that right now, because air was harder to find. Come yell at him a little more, just once more.

Ludwig was suddenly grabbing Gilbert's shirt again, eyes wide and brow low and pulse racing, and with one great yank Ludwig had pulled Gilbert upright and straight back into his arms. The way Ludwig stared at him, then...

Best damn feeling in the world, held there like that above Ludwig's knees and clenched up.

Ludwig still didn't speak, as if he just couldn't. Didn't matter, because in the distance Gilbert could still hear Roderich and little Ludwig, so this Ludwig didn't need to say anything. Feeling him was more than enough.

A low murmur, as Roderich held Ludwig on the couch beside of him, and Gilbert sat there on the other end, that very first day Roderich had ever brought Ludwig home. The one damn time he and Roderich had ever just sat there together and had almost liked each other, just that once, as Roderich had comforted Ludwig and Gilbert had told him jokes to make him smile. Looking up, to meet Roderich's eyes above Ludwig's head and feel no hatred there—

With the very last of his strength and consciousness, on the very last brink, Gilbert managed to breathe, "I'm sorry."

There—he said it. Might have taken him his entire damn life to say it, but he'd said it. Was on his deathbed, sure, but he had said it all the same, and he just hoped that that was enough.

Had to be enough, because he could never say it again.

No more air. His lungs collapsed.

A forehead briefly against his own.

He managed to clench Ludwig's sleeve within his hand, and held on for dear life.

Had Roderich heard him say it? He better have, the asshole, 'cause that was as good as Gilbert was gonna give him. Just in case, though, he said it one more time up in his head. Just in case. If that was really ever even gonna be enough, just sayin' that he was sorry. Breakin' Roderich's heart, over and over again as he had.

Suddenly, astoundingly, Ludwig's lips pressed into his forehead, one hand on the back of his head. Everything he had wanted, for so many years. Everything he had wanted and nothing that he had done to deserve.

A deep whisper in his ear as consciousness and alertness dulled into a haze. He didn't know if that whisper he heard then came from the real Ludwig or from his own subconscious, and he didn't care, because it was exactly what he needed to cross the river.

Together.

"I love you."

Forever.

Touching him had been worth it. A long journey, a damn exhausting one at that, just for the opportunity to clench Ludwig to his chest one final time.

Worth it.

Worth it for him, anyway, and he knew it was selfish, knew it, but that was all he cared about then. Knew that maybe it shouldn't've been worth it. One moment in Ludwig's arms; maybe that shouldn't have been worth Roderich and Erzsébet. Maybe it shouldn't have been worth Alfred. Eduard, pushing him out of that window first.

Toris, taking him east when they should have gone west.

Shouldn't have been worth it, but it was, because Ludwig was everything and Gilbert was a selfish damn bastard, always had been.

In a way, it was the best way a guy like him could have ever gone out, feeling like that, feeling that love, that horrible, wonderful burn of adoration and elation that Ludwig brought out. Loved that feeling, always had, only got it from Ludwig. Had torn the world apart to find that feeling, had sought it relentlessly in every possible way. Had tried to replicate it with drugs, had tried to get it any way he could, but it only ever came when he was with Ludwig. No comparison with anything else. Had never found it anywhere else but in Ludwig.

That _feeling_.

Didn't die alone, like he had always feared, because Ludwig stayed right there above him, holding him up there, and Gilbert was beyond certain that Roderich was there too, maybe having at long last forgiven him because he had finally apologized. Didn't even matter if he was just hearing things there on the brink, really, because Roderich's voice was still pretty great. Hell, could say, truthfully, that he felt more loved then in that moment than he ever had in his life, there between Ludwig and Roderich.

Go figure.

Dying in Ludwig's arms was the best damn thing that had ever happened to Gilbert.

The last thing he saw was Ludwig's face, and that was perfection.

Love.

Ludwig didn't cry.

**FIN**

Driving.

All he ever did was drive.

Every time he looked over, it didn't change the fact that the seat was still empty. No more glints of silver in the sunlight. No one beside of him. The only glinting now was of the diamonds he had managed to collect from the KGB office before fleeing with his tail between his legs, covered in dust and dirt.

Still kept looking over, though.

Emptiness.

Once more, Toris was driving, and yet this was the first time he was doing so of his own volition, with his own destination and his own plans.

Only stopped when he needed to pick up a phone.

He called those men for the last time. Using them for his own personal gain, just one more time. One last favor, and would never use them again.

As he hung up with that man, for the last time, the farewell he received was a low, 'Surprised to hear you alive, man. Hear 'bout that body they found in the mine pit? Thought it was you, honestly. Or did you do that?'

He set the phone down without a word.

In a way, yeah. He had done that, through stupidity and his own weakness. Didn't cry too much about it. Couldn't, really, even when he tried to. Had gotten his one good cry in, there in the dirt, and just couldn't summon that emotion again.

He was just like them, in the end.

For all of his talk, for all of his self-pity, for all of his stubbornness to admit what had always been there, for all of his denial, when everything was sat side by side, he was them. Had been, the whole time. So long he had called them 'Ludwig and Ivan', and had neatly omitted his name from their company.

He had set out to kill Eduard and Gilbert, and had succeeded. Just hadn't gone the way he had originally planned it, but it had happened all the same. He had led Gilbert back there, knowing what would happen, and hadn't even tried to save him.

That desperado run after finally hauling himself miraculously out of that pit; he had started flying the second his feet had hit solid ground and hadn't even tried to go to the house. Hadn't even tried to check, hadn't tried to intervene. He had known from the second that Ivan had bolted off that Gilbert was dead, and didn't see the point in killing himself, too.

Those last few minutes.

Instead of being a dead hero who had gone to the house to try to save the life of the man that had possibly loved him, Toris was a living, self-serving bastard that had run as fast as he could straight from that mine in search of diamonds and from there straight to a fuckin' car.

He had bolted out of town so fast that he hadn't even remembered to turn on the headlights until he had run off the road.

And he hadn't looked back.

Gilbert was dead, and he wasn't, and there it was. That was that. No changing it.

Just took that memory of Gilbert in sunset with him. All that was left of him.

Couldn't escape that, maybe, no matter where he went. Couldn't escape the fact that he was everything they were.

The Ivan-Toris.

"Passport?"

Toris reached into his pocket, and pulled out his papers. His new ones, made by his guys, always faithful and reliable, and suddenly, for the first time in his life, Toris was no longer a citizen of a satellite state of the Soviet Union. Wasn't a Red soldier, anymore.

"Have a nice day, sir."

Toris had woken up that morning suddenly Swiss, and his name was Eduard.

Someone out there should have kept the spirit of that name alive.

He drove right out of the Soviet Union, and for the first time he was never going to go back. On another road-trip, to friendlier lands where a man like him didn't belong. Would stay in Switzerland for a while, try his hand at a normal life, and then perhaps in a year or so he would cross the sea and go to America. Or perhaps Argentina, where Ivan had always wanted to go.

He rolled the window down, hair loose and blowing away, arm hanging out as he enjoyed the cold air.

West.

He went alone.

No one beside of him.

He waited every day for someone to find him. Figured it was only a matter of time before one of the men that had once been 'his guys' tracked him down. Now that he was gone, maybe they would become Ivan's guys. Maybe they would be Ludwig's. Nice to think that maybe they would stay loyal to Toris, even after it was all said and done, but he doubted it. No honor among thieves, after all.

Ivan wouldn't let him go that easily.

No one ran out on Ivan and lived to tell about it. It had taken years to get Eduard, but, eventually, Ivan's hand had found him, even if it had been through Toris. That hand would reach out again, this time towards _him_ , and maybe, poetically, it would be Ludwig that would find Toris and strike him down. Ivan wouldn't be wronged like that without setting it straight.

Toris was a threat to Ivan, as long as he was alive, and always would be. Toris was the only man on earth that could have shattered everything Ivan had built up. The only man that could have ever threatened Ivan and Ludwig's fantasy world. The only man that posed any sort of threat to their living lie. For that, Ivan would chase him down the world over. Wouldn't ever stop until Toris was taken care of.

Would never stop, until he finally got a hold of Toris.

He spent every day looking over his shoulder and jumping at shadows. Fearing the dark. Fearing what was behind every door. Fearing the outside, and then outside fearing to come back inside. Fearing every car that drove by.

The rest of his life would be condemned to that. His punishment. He had hurt so many people. The list of bodies behind him was as long as Ivan's had ever been. Hell, it was probably longer.

He had been the worst of them all, always had been.

He deserved this life. This constant panic and fear.

Every time he turned a corner. Every time he stepped into the street. Every time he walked past an alley. Every time he crossed a stranger on the sidewalk. Every time a flash of gold caught the sun. Every time he lay down to sleep.

Couldn't even enjoy the cool wind blowing through the trees, the sun coming out from behind the clouds, the smell of the grass or the colors of the flowers, because, in the end, every time he opened his front door—


End file.
